cover your eyes

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