She wrote words of death on my chestlike only a true artist could ever do
the words were heavy and spiked
onto my bleeding brisket, it hurt,
almost as much as an unrequited love
But i liked it, i liked it a whole lot
those beautifully carved words would stay
as an addition to my count of wounds and scars
a sum of life well lived (or not)
despite the stitches and painkillers
The way fate wrote my path
i might have swum to the southern shore
times and times again, restless
maybe until the river took me in her arms
because, frankly, who else would?
Now, i see myself admiring the same paintings
and enjoying the same simple mundane pleasures
perhaps i will once again dawdle the streets
looking for the right path to were I don't know
or maybe i'll just follow straight towards
the bluest light.
