I’m scared of this masterpiece,
how I painted it so perfectly
with every bit of green and blue, sewed
to a threshold of fragmented doors—
a tapestry of thoughts, where everything is new.
I was drawn
to a morning so sullen.
From the wooden chair in front, I stared, not
the spitting rain, but the woman dancing.
She was humming as she twirls, slowly
and gracefully, while her onyx hair oscillates
as her silvery silk dress’s.
Her unpainted lips—
but filled me with lust.
It prickled my soul
down to my skin. It didn’t hurt
as much as she run away
towards the sleeping forest.
I chased her footprints. It’s all I remember.
I should have known the price
of entering— was to lose my trails.
But I opened. And I felt alive.
It was cold and placid
when the night bleeds into Rayleigh, painting
the dome, azure
with scattered crimson flames;
any remnants of the stars.
Uncovering the old tea house,
managed by old man Strauss, where
I always sit
behind the rusty gate, waiting
for the hour of your ochre hue-
enough to make me howl
like a wolf to the moon.