By: Juan Guzman
Fringes of line-striped paper
dangled off the tips of my ears.
Ink blots raged on the insides of palms
from the sweat that was smeared.
Red colored dye swam through
a pool of white paste in my eye.
Papers shuffled through the room
a gust of wind could not be denied.
Months that would count nine
were spent in search of reason.
Number ten had arrived
accompanied by your treason.
Confronted by the blinded truth;
Lustful hands had given me proof
Of another’s eyes who had studied
The shapes that were deemed to be aloof.
Wasteful nights defined by
painting you golden;
It’s impossible to create a masterpiece
out of a lifeless black-swollen …
Poems, stories and allegories;
Inspired by the loss of someone
who I thought was true.
A fake, a snake and a facade;
You were the knife
that was able to cut through.
Deceived by gestures –
defeated and unnerved.
a wasteland of words
that you never deserved.