stained with latex odour
constantly paint iodised letters
on etherised vapour
A beautiful portrait sleeps
on a flood lit canvas
-as worn out as the eternal wait- weeps
yet crisp as the first prayer of the mass.
And somewhere there would be
a slender hidden hope
for those who dare to see:
how, indeed the tender hearts cope!
Vain attempt to stop the red torrents
haunts, taunts... laments, torments:
Then, that distant sound of faint bleeps
..all that sieved memory keeps.