« As long as you adore me | Main | A doll with a missing eye »
February 23, 2009
This within me
what is this within me,
afternoons are empty like a painting
that is hung quietly with traces of the paint brush
drying in a daily ritual on a wall with no identity
There is no names on the right hand corner
and yet this within me
left in quiet corners where you stood
rubbing the oil on your fingers
your prints on a white washed wall
I wish you would know
how this within me has bled
the dry paint has run the edges of the frame
the wall is soiled and swelled with
scabs like a wound that breathes
Posted by Idinraha at February 23, 2009 03:46 PM