One day he ran He ran very far away Wondering if his family Needed his stay
Fearless. He should have been.
Soon, he looked back: He heard a song He was sitting on a stool Holding a drink
He was singing along He wondered why?!
He could not be there
I still see the back of you Guiding and leading the pack We biked miles to the beach We could say anything! Any old thing—is the thing
To each other—to anybody Anything but: Goodbye
Hopefully, we are all okay Yesterday was quite the memory Wishing so hard we could go back
Oh, but the pictures we have The cement treadmill underneath us
Moments, never forgotten
Why did they turn dark and grey? Why do the colors of life go away?
The only thing that matters for now
Is that we still say Hey for today
Felt so great To be alive Dancing on tables Reckless, but totally fine Dreams that were planted Grew strong in bright light Confidently standing— I was 25 Survival was pretty Flowed just like water Every little thing
Was going to be alright
If I could go back And speak to me at 25 34 me would say: Breathe it all in, man Today is the day Shake it and take it As much as you can You can do anything You’re only 25! Just like I wanted
To say to 19 me— When I was 25
5 out of 7 days She was there Sitting, wiggling about Working in her chair A total pro Selling her web Killing the numbers A diner burger and coffee Never neglected On her lunch hour I know nothing she said Now, I have nothing Only best wishes For Mary She pops in my head Here and there Hearing the things She would say The scratching of scratch-offs Cigarette walks with the dogs —Hers was called Trouble Oh, I used to have fun
I know all about fun So, she covered for me While I napped on a leather couch Lucky winners we were to know her Now, there is nothing? I hear she is not all there When she was always there I do know one thing thing: I have so many prayers For Mary
She carries pain In a designer handbag Minds are left bound in a trap I hated the hatred I felt one night Deceived by superficial beauty Beauty of Cynthia
She cuts through guts To her, we’re hers She dines on Our vulnerable meat
What a surprise
Under porcelain skin hides
A foul and gluttonous sin Sin of Cynthia
In a pricey restaurant
Red wine dripped down Seductive, blood red lips With the wipe of a napkin She stood up in black heels
She flew off and she grew Smaller and smaller
There was no trace left Left of Cynthia
The curse of the witch Left my trembling hands with a wish: To stab evil with my dinner knife But, I’m not like her
She’ll sleep tight—she is free To wake up and hunt prey so naive Check paid, I went home
Trying to forget the night
Night of Cynthia
Alex Markovich. 40 y.o. Russia. Artist. Author. MarkovichUniverse AT gmail DOT com Feel free to use my paintings and photos on your blogs and social networks as illustrations for your stories, poems, etc.