A miserable point in the blue,
blue planes of this new world
replaces makers of the old.
A red husk
gutted by time and impatience,
rooted in what history bleeds.
It matters more than
violence
(this new, blue world – held together by hands
torn, shorn skin deep)
a word empty in meaning.
The ropes cut, cutting my breathing
short.
I marvel at what her hands bring, what they can do, can make.
A helpless tune for a fool.
Chaos –
nothing but eternal blue, sweeping over calloused palms,
worn fingers,
invisible rings.
She offers me things beyond my dreams but
she always wants more.
More and more.