A dead connection,
struggling to stand on the horizon,
like a dead, hollowed-out metropolis;
once great, strong, and teeming with life
and love,
now thew blood has gone,
the face is pale.
Three years,
two,
what does it matter,
when you dance on the scythe
of a midnight sky
alone.
Your toes drag,
peeling skin leaving crimson,
on powdery white-blue acrylic skies.
The artist's brush paints
and captures a sadness inconceivable
to the human eye
but captured nonetheless.
Wrapped hands stop
red red waters of life
from deserting you
in a fight you've lost
for too many years.
Andy Veilleux 