so many years

so many years
painting the seven colours
and still the color black
stains my brush
so many years
sleeping with the moon
and still moonless nights
plagues my sky
so many years
under the burning sun
and still a serpentine darkness
coils my skin
so many years
composing ballads
and still a blank canvas
envelopes my hide
so many years
writing, seeking solace
in words
and still am a wound
living on blood
so many years
writing poems
and still am an unknown hermit
hungry for words
so many years
dancing in the rain
and still a raging desert
lives in my clothes
so many years
carving statues of women
and still my women
are made up of paper
and still my women
are made up of paper