23 January 2010

Posted on January 23, 2010

2


I dream
and in all twenty dreams
(and counting)
the muscles in my ribcage are ripe for bursting
Not from pain or seizing
but from paint and emotions flooding my veins
rushing to my face and irritated mind

What’s leftover is
a white hot center of fear
of unbridled love
and overwhelming fragility

The morning wakes me from my rapid dreaming
but stains from the oil paints remain just under the surface

Burnt Sienna
Mars Red
Raw Umber

all tattoos from invisible memories
of a single day
on my Canton Rose skin.

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