The Scream

A screethe-screamch, 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.


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