I turn my back on this frosty morning

Stubbornly licking my insincere tears

I am not to be comforted by the weary and old

Rude and common, threadbare in the age of riches

Stirring wind in our pots of gold

Not fit to beg on a church's steps

Not presentable enough to step out in the street

I hang my head like a child

Finding himself in the crook of an arm

His legs still kicking and raising the dust

That never settles his wild refuse I wait to be gathered in these unwanted arms

Already vibrating around me like an aura

Making the taste of my wantonness exquisite

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// A poem by Oana Rusu Tomai

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March 2021

Acrylic and Oil on canvas

Private collection