His metaphors are rooted in the driest reality, there's no beauty, there's nothing to feel. And yet. You feel an age old fire rankle in your chest when he calls upon you to 'break the town', you wonder at the depressingly bright pictures painted by him with the softest of brushes. You wonder at the contradiction of eyes lusting for light and the corpse shut in the coffin, it doesn't make sense, but it hits too close to home.
It's a different kind of pain, which comes from feeling too much, a little too much, from the helplessness of not being able to bring a change. It's the charred soul of a man desperate for revolution, but not being brave enough to rebel. The pen becomes his refuge.
YOU ARE READING
Arcadia
PoetrySpilled thoughts, letters from no one, stories of another time, another place. - || H.R. : #50 in Poetry ||
