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Monday Blues
Base Grey
Brick walls that lay on the
Foundations of experiences
History.
Yesteryear.
Art.
I adore.
Hangings loose on warm walls.
Museums.
Of black truths and white lies.
And white truths and black lies.
Of Quilted ties burdened by quilted lies.
All that these eyes have come to witnessed
Ever since the first time I lived a cinderella
I am a breathing one.
A breathing warm brick structure.
Whistling winds cold.
Wearing off the
Velvets and Satins
Burgundy Covers.
Tastes of the forbidden delights
Strawberries and cherries.
Under Hot pinks and bloody reds.
Carved across poetries.
Vessels carry the thickness
Of overworked heavy deep
Bruised and hurt aching and exhausted of replenishing human oil
To and Fro from the cells to the heart
A cyclic flow
And thus it forever remains.
A vicious constant.
This heartache.
This heartbreak.
And so art I breathe.
And Museums Of Art are but rarely willingly visited, won't you say?
-y.v
YOU ARE READING
Desiderium
PoetryAn echo lost in time asking the soul to dance to expressions of joy and laughter narrated by language. Poetry - Celebration of Art & Emotion.
