finds joy in music and
in
silence
sits in the same blue room his
marriage fell apart in
but no longer writes about it
those days are dead and gone,
like kahlo and pollock,
like ernst, and the
sky here bleeds beyond its borders
the woman he loves sends him
letters from 3000 miles away
he goes to bed depressed,
wakes up frightened,
stumbles out into the painful
light of too many ordinary hells
wonders when time
became the enemy
why his scars are only
beautiful when no one else
can see them
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