i want to paint.
to bring the words of poetry to life
but do i compare to people blessed in this way by The Light?
yet why should I compare?
so i paint anyway.
my brushes bustle to the blundering ditty,
dance to the trembling senseless of my thumbs
i have painted.
diluted gouache rolls off their bristles
sinking into the canyon of a lonely crevice on the floor
weeping in watercolour
as though they themselves have borne witness to the sight
of my macabre in the making