An Ear for Post-Impressionism
I always thought
you loved me,
by the way you stroked
my lobe.
I heard your heart
beat bounce
and the flash flood
of art –
aerial blood:
the circular of your life,
my life,
our symbiosis.
But how could I
have known you
could hear
what I could not.
You thought it was me
who mocked you,
until the point
began to boil.
When the hammer cast down
and judgement ruled,
the voices convinced
you –
I was a traitor,
a scapegoat framed,
blamed
for all the torment.
I will you
to put away the knife
but you don’t listen,
you’re listening
to the voices that say
cut,
cut,
cut me away.