Finger-Painting

Finger-Painting

Your turn, now.
My what? Secret reminiscence of
Childhood days, when no one
Expected a thing. Hollywood images –
The crying lover, the ominous train, the
Embraces of a mother. Yet who am I?
Who mourns for the unknown friend? Not we,
I always was too morbid for social
Thoughts of romance and sonnets and
Red, red roses, stained with the residue of our
Sins, repent, cry the wise, repent of your
Foolish antics! Ah, he knows, you are a
Good child.
Am I?
Hatred for this innocent world, which has done
Nothing – for we are the unscarred.
Let swords be our tools, as we
Carve our masterpiece into
Crimson skies, paint a smoking, toxic mess.
Call it art.
Yet at least it is your own.