A screech, a yelp, a cry-for-help,
the sex-less Orient weeps. The wind’s cries
wound the clouds in a child-like scribble. Broken colour
erodes the sky in a volcanic mess.
The red smoke fuelling the creature’s trauma; terror-stricken, a product of time’s inevitable toll.
Or perhaps it’s euphoric, ecstatic, a wail of joy,
an outcast of the field’s decay. The sky eroding in an attack of Crayola,
its cloud’s clashing patchwork now bruised; emotionally tainted by human vandals.
For watchers dissect the image, responsible in decoding a painter’s allusion.
Strangers can’t make sense of the uncomfortable scene.
Why must we untangle, make sense, of a lost cause’s mind?
For God’s sake, let the lone wanderer scream.