i'm just standing there
with only one thing
a book in my hand
the artwork sovereign
i pick it up and trace the cover
with my one bloody finger
then open it
blank
blank
blank
all of it has been erased
except one
a stray page
just there:
lives of art queens,
always end with drops of blood
to an endless colorless stream,
they pull stray never ending
pale colors into color schemes,
to them, it's as divine as
something out of a dream,
to humans, my dear,
poetry is never understood,
so i gotta make myself clear
i turn the page
poetry is nothing but lilted words,
never understood, just this.
words.
being a sovereign is a curse.
you feel hated in the place you
call home
some follow the path of their
mothers
some follow the path of those
they never met
but a sovereign is a sovereign
they are meant for nothing
their life is stolen
their death is always the same
thorns of a deadly rose
hands touching another
hands with love that is no more
pain multiplied by the number
of people they drew new life
into
people that hated them
people that thought death
is better than being held
captive in the pale insides
you obliviously made their
heaven, a hell
and as it starts
it always ends
you will be prisoner in this
place, feel the feelings
that the people you
imprisoned felt
as you wait for the new
sovereign
and the next
to infinity
you will be a slave
slave to a land of yesterday
waiting day of a thousand hours
by day
your vivid life is now colorless
all grey
your body will remain immortal
heart will decay
as your prisoners celebrate
around rivers of gold
in their own special bay
this land shall always be your grave, and in it you shall lay
i look all around me
this is the insides
a destructed version of the insides
the version the prisoners used
to live in
i look at my mother
you were one, i say. she nods.
and here it is, just next to my
feet
my older body
it turns into dust
and disappears
i open the book again
but it's all blank, blank
only one page
one hundred thirty one
in it a sketch of the man
with horns
till a new artwork sovereign comes
the insides will be cleared
i will remain a slave to this land,
this land of yesterday,
this land shall be my grave,
and in it..
i shall lay.
the end.
YOU ARE READING
artbook
Poetry// it's not something as mere as smelling colors and tasting letters, it's something like painting fish in the middle of the sky and drawing dragons in the middle of town. something like having the world as your artbook. \\
