Listen. Don’t touch the images I’ve painted painted on the wall, just listen.
Look at them,
They wish for freedom but they cannot live freedom.
Look at them running,
For the crumbs that leave the gods’ table.
Tumbling see them running
See the ground making love to the fire,
Listen to the singing stones as they melt into lava.
Listen to the runners turning back.
Scampering back to something.
Listen to the ashes of that past glory,
A painting of how it is all useless.
The things they run for, I run for.
We are victims of this,
So touch not my paintings.