Our Graffiti Walls
Sometimes the pain is unyielding,
deeply plunged with serrated edges.
Only you can see the ghoulish images
stuck on repeat, record, rewind, replay…
Brother take my hand because I understand
how the weather won’t efface, nor time erase,
the graffiti on the wall of your remembrance,
bleeding paint, rolling from those crying eyes.
Why does midnight seem so dark and cold
when you’re feeling strapped and alone?
While Insomnia wrestles your demons away,
daylight can’t seem to come soon enough.
But it eventually does Brother, it does!
See… the bleeding has stopped for a while.
When you looked out of your window
and saw that other artists had been at work…
Painting their own graffiti walls, you knew
that there were others outside just like you,
chasing ghosts at midnight, in frenzied spritz,
their pain transformed into nobel–prized art.
We’ll rise from the ashes again Brother!
Take my hand, you may lend me yours too.
If I could paint,
I would wash the background
with all my tears of wasted years,
blend the dark with pastel shades,
of new love I had found.
Then with brilliant colors,
foreground with flourish,
flashes and flush,
with dazzling diamonds,
of the golden years
I’m longing to spend
with only you.
The first time
I never thought I’d feel it again,
that raw urge,
that sense of release
to feel whole again,
in control of my own freedom,
to touch the magic:
feel its pulse, one with my own,
the tremulous anticipation
that you always feel,
on that decisive occasion
of the first time,
that long awaited moment.
That’s how I felt
from the first stroke,
lubricated with blushing color
and sweeping motions.
poured out of me
as I laid my dream bare
on the smooth white canvas.
(Inspired by the Elizabeth Gilbert’s latest book –
Big Magic: Creative living beyond fear)
You’ll not fall on your sword
And I’ll not take an asp to my arm.
We both know the folly of such an act.
But at least indulge my daydreams
As I will give flawless blossoms to yours.
Paint me a portrait of our soulful love
In words that catch the trick of the light.
Sculpt a statue that moves in iambic rhythm
In sync with the person you’ve come to know,
Then strum a melody into the flow of your verse.
You’ll not reach the top of Mount Everest
And I’ll not swim across the English Channel.
Neither of us has such urge or tenacity,
But at least listen to my silent words
And I’ll lend vocabulary to tag your feelings.
Just keep in pursuit of the perfect alchemy
That will bring you eagerly back home to me.