The Lonely Painter
Underneath strong currents,
looking at the clock ticking,
and telling me it’s too late.
Vibrations on the stratosphere,
unseen under the surface of my sea.
Thunders of astonishing powers,
and dark clouds gathering on dusty boulevards.
As I look down the cliff,
I can feel your hand holding mine firmly,
as the days fly away.
Please don’t leave my hand,
I don’t want to be a star,
just a decent human being.
Procession moves on, the shouting is over,
silence on the garden washed down by the rain.
On the horizon, like a morning prayer,
the blue sky moves forward,
as I’m with you.
I can feel the music of the day.
From E to G minor,
the symphony of absolute,
song of myself,
as I let them go,
and suffocate my mind.
I hope to feel the warmness of your smooth hand,
and let myself go.
Moments of nightmare,
loss of control,
noise in my head, fear.
Scars of my heart, impossible to heal.
Everytime the same, I crumble down,
panic scarfs down my strengths.
A bunch of colours,
as I wait for the water to take me away.
My book, my blank page.
As I look down.
Please don’t leave my hand.