top of page

Paintbox


Image by Jason Blackeye on Unsplash



She left last week, took her loaded vows

The door’s still open, I’m locked out of my house

I’m madly in love, but what about pity?

Could it be that she found it in this war-torn city?


I wrote to her asking, “Does it ever get better?”

I’m still waiting for her reply to my letter.

She’d write it if she had time to think

But her humour is dry, like the wine and the ink.


There’s a picture of me on her corner shelf

I’ve looked at it often and I don’t look like myself.

I’ve heard her stories, but she’s got to stop

Stacking up debts at her father’s shop.


He smiled at her once under the brim of his hat

Told her, very kindly, that the Earth is flat

Told her that one sin soon becomes ten…

I sincerely hope she never saw him again.


I’ve forgotten their faces, my memory’s a ditch

Was it she who told me to kill this switch?

I’d ask for her help in the gathering gloom,

But she walks through this dream like it’s her own room.


She’s been singing the blues with colours and tones

Like the wafer-thin bridges of brown collarbones

The kind that can snap with no trace of hurt

Much like old magic in December’s dirt.


I could write forever of her paintbox whims,

And the lakes that I drain so her light never dims.

You can hear her blues, but not a word that she’s said.

It’s all Divine Will and acrylic red.


That’s just as well. The keys are all wrong

On a quicksilver piano of stiff drinks and song.

So I’ll choose the night sky over open doors.


The brimmed hat is gone, and somewhere, she knows.






66 views0 comments

Recent Posts

See All

Selfie

Human

Diana

Comments

Rated 0 out of 5 stars.
No ratings yet

Add a rating
bottom of page