Am I an albatross stuck in an drawer, or a drawer stuck in an albatross?
Those once-bright shifting colors steadied to a constant darker shade of gray,
My life dripping sin – as if squeezing ink out of a squid – as it wanders wounded and delirious,
Questing to reclaim those former shifting colors by rejuvenation.
Our GOD is a vengeful cartoonist, hands dripping black ink,
The work smudged into violent and sublime life.
Is this a bird He sketched, or furniture? How long the beak? How heavy the wood?
Deprived of diverse pigments and shades, left smudged and dark,
What work am I? How long until the Artist discards me? I only imagine my reflection:
An unholy chimera, a synthesis between the animate and inanimate, a daydream to my GOD.