Contrition

Regret

0128.2009

Regret has signs:

some ache beneath the ribs

that dares not name itself—

only a need to fix,

balancing its weight

against well-being,

and winning.

Each morning,

she looks down at her hands,

avoiding the mirror

above the basin.

She will walk the streets

facing forward—

refusing to turn—

shun the streaked glass

mated to concrete erections,

those stupid structures

of obedience.

In May,

flies slip through her open doors,

through the windows left ajar.

They lay their soft, silver seeds

in the mouth of the sink,

where her dishes bloom

with rot.

And then—

she will always asks:

why do the maggots come?

They are so hard

to get rid of.

(But she already knows.)

m.c.f.

AI rendered  ⁙  Photoshop altered  ⁙  The Hour Devours  ⁙  Ashes Bloom  ⁙  Vestiges of Time  ⁙  Not for sale

Concept rendering • Inspired by my ongoing exploration of symbolic duality in traditional oil and lens.