Piscium

I suppose a poem is in order. After all, isn't that what we are all about?

The breaking voice of a love song has no right to make your heart flutter

It has no voice with which to argue.

Identity lost, found, let go again until the canvas spins.

A voice that thunders on frail strings creates the box within which you  see me…

A pulsing beat forces the heart to play to its own beat.

But I will not… cannot… will not because why should I? the master of my fate, the painter of my masterpiece, the lowly, bound servant of everyday utensils, why should I listen or care if not for the rush of what is not otherwise possible?

In your little world of pots and pans, of boiling oil and smells that make my mouth water...

Why should I?

I stand in the kitchen door and observe shyly as you destroy everything that you can reach

The china, delicate patterns goes first.

There is no sound as it dies. I wonder how a thing that can last thousands of years can be so easily shattered by a simple whim.

The fish is burning – I point out and you yowl louder, wanting to attack it too but afraid of the heat.

It amuses me, your fear of hot oil but not of glass.

I tell you so, but you’re already gone.

Only attacking the inanimate is your punishment

You still think I have some tie to the things that are here? I don’t, never had.

Pretending to ground you, to make you feel better, to not hear accusations of being better than I really am, but am I really?

I am nothing, even I know that and yet you think I am so egoistic as to beleive I have still some way to fall

How very foolish my little friend, how pathetically idealizing of you.

If I laugh you’ll cry, and then it will have to go back to pretending that everything is tolerable.

I’ll start to clean up the small littered blades of the porcelain on the grimy floor, I’ll shoo the dog away, not wanting it hurt.

I’d shoo you away too, but that will be of no avail

You have fish to fry after all…