Is it early morning or late night? My mind can’t seem to figure.
I reach for my half, burnt-out intoxication in an attempt to shrug off my seclusion.
I stand out in the open, my hands full and my mind overflowing with rivers of blood from the battles.
There is fear, there is anticipation, there is doubt, there is provocation.Intoxicated, I consciously inhale the fresh breeze that will introduce another day.
Overwhelmed with no cause, comes to me the poor man.
He is here to reveal and unveil, as he has nothing else to do and sleep only mocks him, be it night or day.
He starts to blabber, ignoring my fidgety, restless, relentless character.
He knows I will listen; he knows I was there only for him.
He knows, he always manages to find me in my escapes.
I pretend to be engrossed in the time of the night, the silence of time, the darkness of the guarding windows in front, the dimly lit streetlights, the sleeping trees, the insensitive parasites.
I am aware the revelation of beauty, in its infamous form, is at its work.
He gently slides his hand through my neck over the shoulders; he is assuring and sounds wise.
He beckons me to write; he is indignant but more inspired, I know.
And as I finish my calling, he leaves me with a note that read you wrote my mind, the poor man’s art.