The painting leans against the sky
Borrowing colors, light bleeds in.
I sit at the computer tapping keys –
The riot of my feelings
Revolts against a sad history of words.
They together tell of the crack in time
Where the torturer slides in like a shadow
Between what I wanted
And what I have done.
The only thing to do
Is to turn my back on
Guesses and approximations.
The crowd pleaser must die and
I must do alone that evening liturgy.