Poetry

It was always painful to remember the suicide 
of a painter, 
who was drawing the landscape 
of hunger. 
Polishing his art of pretention. 
The time whistled past his window 
without punctuation. 
 
The terrain was tough, deepened by 
requiem, the tears dried up 
on the cheeks of chastity. 
 
Script without drum and hue 
of glowing eyes, 
cracked lips 
of us and our instruments of tragedy.