How many brushstrokes would it take to capture you?
Can you escape the static
The static landscape that distorts you?
Your voice?
Your needs?
Must we invent a new art of synthesis
In order to quantify your pain?

Her strange face
Painted in his familiar way
Stoically she begs for us to see her
See every argument
See every fight
See every struggle that she’s ever had.

His violin the gateway
The gateway to her music
Her stars the road
The road to his secrets
But the path is deafening.

She turns away
Her back exposed
Her skin forsaking the usual flesh tones
Yet her energy radiates with color.

Thoughts drip from her presence
My ears hearing what can’t be heard
Her words forbidden to be spoken
But everyone who walks by can feel her
Can be intimate with her
Can touch her in places that darkness attempts to hide

We are all victims
Victims of her violence
That violence the aggressiveness of her colors
But through that violence,
We catch a glimpse of ourselves.

Your simplicity too complicated
Too complicated for us to ignore
For your twisted truths war with our stereotypes

Our paradigms disintegrate
Disintegrate with every glance
Our aroused minds penetrate
Penetrate with every dance
The Wild Beasts pant
Pant to drink from your spontaneity
Yet who understands?
How many have drank from your fountain?

Because of you
I’m imbued with serenity.
I begin to rip apart the perspectives
Tear away the curtain of accepted style
I want to know what lurks underneath
What in me dies to live?
What area of my existence hides itself for me?

Am I a deliberate incompletion?
Whatever shall be
Shall be in me
And it shall be born from the solitude
The silence
The absence

Because of you
I shall climb out of this maze
I shall hang on the walls of scientist minds
For the oppressive climate of war stirs me
Births me
And at times even curses me
Yet who can deny the ballet?
The ballet of oppression