I feel like I am disappearing,
one painting at a time,
I'm drawing on empty,
too many paths and detours,
followed and unfollowed,
my world is getting smaller,
an agitation blowing through me,
like a cruel wind,
between the rapture of my brush
and the dread of being misunderstood,
between groans and grunts,
and a thicket of lingering passions,
hand-picked, polished and packed for
delivery at my door by unseen hands,
these things I do not profess to
understand, my life is pieced together
laborously with terror and mercy.
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