• Scratches torment my back
    as if the sun was digging her fingernails
    through the wounds,
    forcing pleas to be wiped away
    (like a broken cobweb
    clinging to the corner of a window)
    from the severed cells.

    You loved when the glass was hit
    by some gilded lance of autumnal dusk;
    but then as the colours shattered
    to scatter the walls with screams
    of sharp edged glimmers
    that turned the bare plaster to
    some magnificent monument for
    some magnificent monument for you,
    some magnificent monument for you, I could see why.

    The cracking reds and kaleidoscope blues,
    eventually dull and merge,
    painting bruises to hang as if framed
    until the canvas fades to some ugly brown
    and your work of art is hidden under a dirty sheet
    in an arid attic that fills the lungs with
    stale soiled dust;

    but the sting’s still there.