Painfully Repeatedly Poem by Miroslava Odalovic

Addressed by the poets of death
still surviving each day
bearing the same skins of life
looking at me with broken irises
they'll try to read my hands off of the palms
painted in thunder washed by storms
and coloured in an agony of their viscious light
it's getting dark they'll say
and do not worry it's only dusk
shall i be silent
or broke the hammers of time
into an infinity of a single drop
unquenched by a thirst dripping down
their gaping mouth
decypher the lu-
i do not want
even if it comes
in the most serene of moonlit dresses
to decode the words finely tuned on lutes
of long forgotten rhymes
shall i be silent
or paint another canvas just to prove the point
of each colour gambling for their hues
between the lines already declaimed
by the kings and queens down on their knees
before the scrambling image or sight
and they who will come to close their eyes
will diagnose nothing but cold
handshakes lost in lyrical disguise