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in a room where widows weep and watchmen contemplate the dark speaking of nightly atrocities and uncertain lines of thought, a painting of a slaughter in tones of burnt sienna presides above the din on a road where wandering tribes and feral boars display their tusks in keeping with traditions stalked by men in armor, a lilly sheds its blossoms like flesh from a soldier ripped in spiraling crimson petals in an ancient valley long and yellow where life has ceased to strive save lizards and insects tumbleweeds and dust, martyrs in an obedient queue repose against an obelisk to worship naught but nothingness in a transient room on a broken street where lost youths bare their veins longing for forgetfulness beneath a flickering light, water from a faucet complains as a neon cowgirl twirls a rope in throbbing red and green in a room where infants scream and limbless prophets dream of sidewalks strewn with broken cups and heated conversations, images of blackened crosses water bearers and wood decay in frames of splintered glass in a house of stone and grass upon a jagged scabrous ground where emptily the children gaze posing questions in the dark of abstract sins and stifled tears, a wind as chilling as a lie blows through leafless trees outside in the room where widows weep and soldiers bare their wounds speaking of lost relations and unimaginable horrors, a shadow cast on a plastered wall in blood-red tones of starlight ponders why we're meant to suffer so in a room where widows weep  Home | Art | Books | Travelog | About
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