Questions for a Madman

What does she write of a man 
with a knife in his voice
when blood blots out her words?

How dare she speak of days 
he brought daisies,
knowing she's ploughing
fields long gone fallow?

Can she ever describe an emptiness
that shrouds like the space
in a man's dying gasps
or the lack of escape from one
who downtraded gold for cheap tin?

Rope ladders won't unfurl,
nor glass slippers be given.

No magic can make a forest take root
in the midst of a pitiless desert.

No glue can mend a thing
shred into a thousand splinters.


Pris Campbell
©2004

Art: Despair by Miami Artist, Diego Quiros
      copyrighted and used with permission
  Visit his site of art and poetry by clicking HERE


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