Under the beast skin

You love cute motives,
Perfected poses, frozen pictures;
While I’m a complete mess, with true gestures,
A cracked Grail and manifestos.

The peonies in their gardens make you drunk,
Their smiles, their minds, outfits in pearls;
While I’m barefoot for freedom, through forests to the sky,
They seek salvation from the darkness,
But I don’t know fear only in the night.

Their life is so graceful: books and Chopin, Paris, high-class events,
As if they were created by Auguste (Renoir or Rodin?) and perfected by playing chess!
While I’m trying to win rounds with Pollock in my thoughts,
And in the morning, I break all the canvases and burn them in the stove.

On their shoulders, the finest furs, charming and adorned,
Suit their actions and… words, words… like honey flowing…
My furs are covered in ashes, rooted to the bones,
Whenever they catch me loose, they try to rip them off.

Though it’s soft, it’s stronger than all worldly armor,
Forged from resentment, pain, despair, and error,
Away from everyone, to freedom, breaking chains and canons.
But look deeply – under the wild beast’s skin, there’s only a tender soul.