Massacre

Red, white, black hues,

serpentine streaks,

chaotic brushstrokes -

these patterns are

reminiscient of the last

two months

of my bohemian Life.

It's like being at a rodeo,

seeing the inhumane show play out

in front of my eyes -

me as the unwilling

bystander, my eyes

aghast with bewilderment

and angst.

I look at the bulls

raging and bucking wildly

across the mud fields,

the pitiful, yet fierce look

in their black eyes,

and I sympathize deeply,

deeply with them.

It's like they have no will

of their own.

I've felt that way.

So going back to Massacre,

the artist's almost-autobiographical

piece,

I think I know what

pillage looks like now -

another version of reality.

Is massacre the tabula rasa

for desire and rebirth?