Artist

I saw myself
taken, a sip at a time,
dragged down by
the blind strength.
Current. No hope for this
humble yacht to sail
beyond the line
peeled by the cold
palette knife.

Salt in my
mouth. The last prayer,
unspeakable. I heard the
rhythmic tapping —
filbert brush against
wooden palette.

Titanium white
was the snow
smothering that which
beneath the air.

Windless yet
the hysterical
keening and cry
distorted
my hallucination.

The canvas restless,
caressed. His
sharp edge bore
the stone mountains
standing there
mocking.

Almost lifeless now
this translucent cell.
I forgot the last time
a clear sky graced
the stage. The fight I
had left not even a
pixel in this sight.

And he walked away
royally at sunset,
earlier this time,
bothering
little every skull
surfaced from
skin; the souls
that sank; the
muted birds
straying;

my pulse

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