The White Painter's Words
I pray...
I pray a prayer of renewal;
a second chance nestled in
every bead that passes
under my tenative fingers
and my fervent breath.
What did I do?
Was it enough?
Could I do more?
Whispers of broken confidence
alight on my heart and rest
in its powerful bowels as it beats
in time to my clock,
-tick, tock-
-tick, tock-
I sing...
I sing a song of ages gone
times passed, ruined dreams
shattered hope that gleams
glitters on the floor as those
sharp mountains that stretch far up
to the sky and impale their peaks
in the tender flesh of those who tread
as careful as they can in the wake
of their menacing luminosity.
They bleed me...
my feet raw,
my feet red.
I croon,
a tune,
a tune of pain and regret
of defeats and the want
to give up and give in
to make a deep slash
to trace a mangled red
line from my carpals
to my sternum with
my wicked pen. Heh, I laugh...
Should I perforate the slots
between each row of aged ivory
that line my chest?
Should I let me drain?
Should I split and fray the vein?
I write...
I write a novel of reasons:
reasons not to make art
of my flesh with my pen,
reasons not to fail myself
reasons not to fail others
reasons to bare my soul
into their arms out of love;
a wild love
a beast's love.
I will make each my brother.
I will make each my sister.
I split my heart
into pieces of devotion
like passages in a Psalter.
I would give them back hope.
My charge is their safety,
their salvations, their rebirth.
My world lay in their arms.
My life hangs from their lips.
I serve...
I serve because it is that
which I have to offer up:
my flesh,
my heart,
my soul,
my whole.
on a plate.
My loves have tamed me
but to others...
to oppressors I am fierce.
The bestial love turns
to bestial rage. I ravage
their bodies in my maw
my teeth and claws rip
and tear at the enemies
of my masters, of my loves.
Their betrayers would quake
at the sight of me:
my blues eyes staring
through them as I shake
my white mane and expose
my white teeth and settle
with a placid yawn at the feet
of my masters waiting...
for a signal
an accusing finger
so that I might shred them up.
Their blood is sweeter
than any wine on my tongue
...the blood of a traitor.
I draft...
I draft a new plan for my soul
I sketch out my simple desires
on the clean blue sheets
I trace along my straight-edge
I lick the tip of my pencil
and apply a fresher line
every time,
a darker line.
I recreate and rearrange
every night and every day
I carry out my new laid plans
Am I so wrong to plot and scheme?
Should I stop?
Could I stop?
Would you dare put a wrench
in the wheels of my mind
to stop my endless conclusions
my endless thoughts and wishes?
Would you then clip my wings
to save me from my flight
to give my all to those I love,
to those whose very names
are inscribed on my heart?
Dare you and I stop the mission
given to me by my love,
inspired by his kindness?
I would build forever...
for those I love...
I love...
I love a pure, powerful love
that fills me with hope.
Dare I kiss him on the lips,
might I hold him to me
weeping for the sheer joy
of him next to me?
Would I press his hand
to my face so he can feel
the spreading, brightening
blush on my cheeks?
Would I press his hand
to my swelling heart
beating for the sake of him
and for the sake of others?
I love a brotherly love
for all other companions.
Should I tell them all?
Should I say that my blood
is for them? I would let them
pluck out my eyes to use
to see, let them cut out
my tongue to use as well
to taste and speak. I would let them
chain me up with my own chains
leave me a bare, dim, ivory
frame in a cold, quiet dungeon and
still my spirit would reach out
with all my might to strangle
their enemies.
I know..
I know I am a child,
that I dream too much,
that my passion is wild
and desperately needs taming.
I know I am deadly and wanton.
Would I think twice before the
destruction of a life in the name
of my loved ones, for the safety
and happiness of my loved ones?
Heavens, no!
Why would this tired messenger
stop offering my body, my heart
and every ounce of my strength?
Why would I stop killing,
stop switching, rearranging
when I have not yet really
done my very best...
...when I have not died
to repay a debt long unpaid?
A debt made in divine justice
wraught on my imperfect soul.
Maybe I can redeem myself
through my love...
I can but give my all
for those beloved to me
those other imperfect
bruised souls I try to heal...
...because it's all I'm good for...
