The procession of gusts thunders through her mind.
The proclaiming warmth and sheltering of her indecisiveness.
It shackles her head to her feet, embryonic, isolated by her thoughts.
There are too many hollering voices, too many void faces, with nothing to say,
Too many well-decorated eyes and lids, lips of plum, the rectangular
Form withering the substance, the content, away, putting colours on bones,
Eradicating the unshakeable meaning within the blood of dolls, man-made.
She looks at them and doesn’t comprehend their language, what is being said
And admired. Thousands of eyes, elevated fingers, mimicry, animation,
But look at the emptiness, the greed and pressure to always do better, double the
Attention, the ephemeral pulse of substance-lacking success.
They are controlled by anonymous numbers, illiterate automatons.
What are you saying to me? What does your image convey to me?
I cannot read your story in the lines you portray, the colours that
You bathe in. The shapes that you accumulate and shove into my face.
You are a collector of numbers, petting the wolves, gazing upon you.
Your basket is overflowing and yet you are starving, you feel it don’t you?
Every single day, the dissatisfaction, the dry lands of the surreal, the facade of things.
The wandering words, the constant quid pro quo, the artificial ups and downs.
You sell yourself short and you benefit from that.
What does that tell you about the forest you derive your echoes from?
She steps out of these disturbing cacophonies of all the human vices that are overfed.
The enabling dead sphere where every well-intended flower is trampled into nothingness.
You’re a pawn and they want you to perform, to have the fatal edge, abase you.
Reduce you to your most primitive human instincts, they want you unhidden
And naked, shallow and malfunctioning, as uneducated as possible.
The forest you feed and defeats you every day preaching to you about success,
Is the same one that entails vast fumes of bodies that dedicated themselves to self-murder.
And you jump around, crying when the phone is under the blanket for a mere second,
The tingling terrorist, that you never turn off, and you know what the dead have felt,
You know the rotten feeling inside of yourself, that we all share and are conditioned
To feel, disconnected in love, stimulated in envy and disharmony, and yet you go back
To hold your greedy basket after your breakdown to assemble the dull language
That has lost all intent, all reflection, all imagery and depth.
You cannot stand the company of your solitude, you are sensing the growing emptiness,
The true success of the watching forest that keeps you small and limited, portrayed,
Whilst you think you’re tall and omnipotent and you choose to pretend that you’re not aware at all.
You have been poisoned.
“Portrait de la Malibran en Desdémone” by François Bouchot (1800-1842)