Pollack

There are flowers on my canvas,
on my tongue, on my face.
There are thorns in my spirit,
in my hands, in my grace.
There are tears in the corners
of my well adjusted sculptures.
There are echoes in my ears
of the lovers and the vultures

There are shadows on the walls
of the room that never was
There are lies I left behind,
from conversation never had.
There is sadness here inside
the finely lacquered smile,
There is madness here between
the invisible paint splashed seams.

Drips down the walls—turn
to splattered spots of tile floor.
The dream once sparkled laughter
The world once churned out hate
and I stand inside windows
and watch the way the rain falls.