A Painted Fantasy

 

Painted babies stole my eyelids.

They tore the skin from my skull.

And plucked out my eyes.

 

They scratch and rip, but they sing so sweetly.

They have wings made of silver.

And fingers made of knives.

 

They ran away with my hair.

And weave it into the trees.

They wash my blood from their hands.

And chew on my lungs.

 

I have no discernible talent.

Ink dries on a page.

That should be blank.

A drop of sweat runs down my spine.

And freezes every line.

 

A second in the dazzling light of brilliance.

Is better than a thousands years.

Up to our necks in s**t.