Days pass into the weak, loveless nights. The moon blinks.
The stars swirl beneath Van Gogh’s brush, as he links.
Comet light passes twisting cypresses, a schizophrenic’s concussion.
On and on, the wind twirls the trees, and does not complain,
nor, does the cosmos cringe awaiting reciprocation.
Lightning bugs mimic the stars. Atoms sneer.
Those who spout love and friendship abandon him, sneering.
Their images dance beneath his lids, when he blinks.
Though denied a compass, his soul does not reciprocate.
Through pain, physical and mental, he still connects, links
with the life which absorbs and excludes him, not complaining.
Nights pass without his mistress, Sien. His mind is concussive.
His face trembles torn in the brass sounds of the storm’s concussions.
The butcher, the baker, the candlestick-maker, all of them, sneer.
How unmerciful, this cycle, this God to whom he does not complain.
If lack of mercy is just, may he not know why? Time blinks.
Thinking causes pain. Only painting connects him, he links.
He accepts art and the pain, as gifts, choosing not to reciprocate.
Voices, the paint, the moon, the voices say, reciprocate.
He chases mice. The cheese plate falls with a loud concussion.
He rubs his gnarled hands across his lids. He maintains the link.
How? Why? But, the mice eating his cheese only sneer.
The sunflowers shimmer and wiggle in their vase, as he blinks.
Stumbling, he falls attempting to sit, the chair does not complain.
He had thought God clear as sunlight; yet, the paint complained.
He was not God; he could not capture the light. He must reciprocate.
After all, who was he, but a mere man, ashes to dust; life blinks.
Ah death, le grand mal, no minor concussion,
He must escape, join the celestial spin, and avoid their sneers.
Sick, yes, sick to death of not being understood, not linking.
The brushes call. He prostitutes himself. Oil spills, connecting, linking.
Theo, brother, never would he forgive. Many others would complain.
Ah, Gauguin, His dear friend, he would understand and not sneer.
If God was truly a loving God, surely, he thought; God will not reciprocate.
The mockers who did not live in Dante’s nine levels of hellish concussion,
they will call his actions cowardly. Merciless, they did not live between the blinks.
Copyright © Debbie Guzzi | Year Posted 2015
Little girl, you who plays princess with the glittery hat perched on your head,
The ribbons cascading down from its tip, tears from your heavenly eyes,
The scepter of a metal pipe and ball gemstones in your hands,
You have no idea who a princess is. You just pretend.
But really, all you know is a virtual reality,
Separated by electronic walls.
Your path to paradise separated by walls
Of incompetence, little girl. In shame hang your head.
If only you knew your life was a game you already lost, in reality.
When your subjects look upon your tattered dress and your downcast, shady grey eyes,
Go out to your balcony of segregation. Wave and pretend
Their lives are not in your hands.
The world is in your hands.
With them you can slay dragons, knight worthy men, build walls
In your castle, your little realm of pretend.
In it you have corruption and power. Tell them to chop of a man’s head
And that they do, without a glimmer of remorse in their eyes.
Little girl, if only you knew this could never be reality.
The scepter you claim is a diamond, in reality,
Just your mother’s glass necklace, clutched in your hands
To match the long-gone glimmer in your childish eyes.
Throughout the years, little girl, you’ve built all the fake walls
Between the princess of yesteryears and the current fog in your head.
Just remember – you are a marionette. Free will is pretend.
Little girl, you have always played pretend.
It’s your feeble attempt at escaping reality.
But now that your scepter is broken, your kingdom is in your head,
Pouring out onto the paper with a broken heart, a pencil and two hands.
All your impassible, unbreakable walls
Left unbetrayed by your cloudy, lying eyes.
You could never tell the color of your eyes.
On the color spectrum, they fell in lying or pretend.
Little girl keeps building those walls
To put more distance between her own broken soul and reality.
As you grow cold, your pale hands
And arms mimic the destructive bloodshed in your head.
Your impenetrable walls to the secret worlds burrowed inside your head
Little girl’s mastery at lying not even deceived by your eyes, when reality
Dictated that your world of pretend would die in your scarred arms and hands.
Copyright © J. Amorose | Year Posted 2017