the slow art of breathing bitter

Let This End Here

Little birds fly across the sky;

The soft brush smears the canvas with rich yellow and orange.

A single rose lying near the sea beach;

This pounding heart remains quiet.

A lone crow rests on the wet wall—

Water drips down its neck

until it falls on the artist's feet.

A bitter song plays

as everything stops.

The rose burns until it gets buried in this heart.

I hear the sudden cries from the vague woods;

These eyes brim in bliss.

Pleasure for a brief time 

until you bury yourself in the pillow

and watch the melancholy colors fill the horizon.

It's an illusion that shatters you every day.

It's a trap where you get yourself hanging and crying in pain.

It's no more the same balcony you can inhale the scent of the crashing waves.

Throw away the brush; it's broken.

Turn off the radio; it's making you sleepy

until you dream of shattering colors again.

Let this 'everyday' tale of falsehood end here.