Sometimes I am
convinced that
the wrong artist
has come to live in me.
As if my soul
was planted by a grower
of geraniums
and not by
Him
whom I thank for that soul.
But often I stand
behind other convictions still,
other images
appear to me.
Like that of the Man
who beats my
and his
carefully pulled up cocoon
with so much power
and muscle and rage
and hate and disappointment,
deep down dirty
disappointment,
to sparks and shards and shreds,
as if he wished
to tear down the artist
with the
geranium soul,
but not his furniture,
not his walls.
--Luc Boudens