As the Man Who Punched a Monet Painting

by Abner Dormiendo

The greens that constellate the trees ask me,
the silver-blue rippling, this impression
of a river, asks me, what are you feeling?

Frankly, lonely boat, not coming back,
but also not sailing away, I feel as unmoved
as you, as static as your electric sky,

dead like the cloud hovering above.
Is this what it means to be beautiful?
My clenched fist tells me so.

I fear I would die in this world, unloved—
and why am I angry? I only wanted something
that would outlive me. Lonely drifter, let it be this:

a hole where you can sail away to where
we cannot see. Before beauty is returned
to the beholder, let me set you free.,

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