The Dream of the Blind Poet

Yesterday, sunday evening, while trying to draw that one scene of my father´s life, showing his mother burst into flames and shatter before the eyes of the bidders who came to grab their house to pass it over to builders 

who would wreck it to feed the CITY´s amoeboid growth, I grew intensely tired, but soon woke up in a dream startled by pictures in my head evoked by the furious noises of my mother´s smacking crunching biting  off the heads of some of the wooden saints
that crowd her private chapel and the entire house. „I gave you that“, she murmured whispering menacingly „tall, beautiful though blind body to make all the beautiful women happy. 

But you would rather give that all for writing your „oh so deeply felt“ poems!“ Spittel and sawdust and pieces of wood and slivers, and the words she spat: „Every other man would be ...!“

Stranded in the „Blind Poet“ in the worst of my dreams, I became so sad, I almost drowned in the dark river flowing in the young human´s chest; 
​
the name of the river was „Styx“;  no other!


​

words by Drawing by Monica C. Abbalonga-Borboleta / Paperwork by blattlimwind