He was breaking my pictures in fits of a rage.
They were taking too much of a space, he reasoned,
and too free in their style. In order to please him,
I was bent to comply and to fit in the cage
where freedom was wounding, because it can’t fit.
Yes, my paintings for him had no use, no use.
They brought no money, therefore they were shit,
and my cage was made from spikes of abuse.
Why creating indeed, when my pictures, not sold,
occupied the conservatory so cold?
I was trying to bend and to change my style,
making pictures so dumb or forgetting to paint,
and the cage was hurting my wings for a while
until they grew numb from the razor-sharp pain
touching bars of my cage, their spiky barbed wire.
Dipping wings in the clay of the household care
a thick skin was developed with the aim to protect me
and my wings were too heavy to fly or to dare,
when my logic servile was abuse justifying,
but the ghost of my freedom, forever neglected,
was inside me silently-silently crying.
It’s all over now. My page is clean.
While starting afresh, I’m my Fate defying,
for the Lord had enough and He did intervene
reaching me through the bars and ripping me out
from the prison of my expectation and doubt,
and my art helps me now in dealing with grieving.
But I have a good friend with a hobby of weaving
and her personal loom takes the space of a room.
This explains perhaps why so long she had tarried
and she never – not once in her life – was married.
5.11.2011