Poetry

He had pulled in many springs 
but failed to find a heaven. 
Asked not to look away. In 
 
absences he tried to enter 
the wounds again. An aboriginal 
pain flies over my shoulder. 
 
A spiritual failure of mankind? 
Counting unctuously the birds nesting 
on an invisible tree. 
 
This narration has no vocabulary. 
Only oily sounds of original 
lunacy. You want to cover 
 
an empty canvas. A self-portrait 
was abandoned after 
the cloudburst of slogans.