Our Renaissance
We turned struggle into an art,
an endless obsession, a quest for broken hearts.
But we grew weary and started
to sweat. Our hands ached and we were wet,
in all the wrong ways,
like watercolored paint with a dried out brush, so desperate for water
in which to intertwine,
our arms, dead,
machines functioning
without all of the bolts,
crashing and splashing
over and over
with pulsating volts,
strokes to nowhere,
the end result,
a picture with no gold.
How can I explain this sacred scene
without explaining the hell
we've traveled
to give birth to
what you see?
No comments:
Post a Comment