• absynth 6w

    #woodenscratches #nailart #eyeofaflame


    The wooden varnish on the table
    Gives in reluctantly to the attacks of my nails
    As I scribble the hieroglyphics of a failed time table
    To leave behind a stale trail
    Of all the weight in my mind
    Beyond its expiry date
    And past its shelf life,
    Falling in love with putrefaction,
    Turning into a clone
    Of its own Stockholm Syndrome,
    Elated at the possibility of donating its carcass
    To a fermentation flask
    And churning in optimal conditions
    Until the grind turns it into wine
    And spills out finally as intoxicated lines.

    The golden flame in one corner of the table
    Breathes in its soot
    While playing a crackling flute now and then
    When the faint wisps of evening breeze
    Eve tease it into an occassional jig,
    Disrupting its calm
    And scattering its warmth
    Till it no longer resembles a flame
    But a helpless dame
    Running helter skelter for shelter.

    A heap of books in the other corner of the very same table
    Topple onto one another
    Cloaked in disorder,
    Trying very hard to be a pile
    While being choked on each other's paper masses,
    Desperate to be spotted and sorted
    By a symmetrical hand
    But then order and routine never go as planned
    And so its finally back to those scratches
    On the wooden varnish
    Turning more distinct and deeper
    As every wish fades and starts to vanish.

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