was his compass, her blessing his disguise, in the pale blue light of moon and mother night, her arms, his refuge from the stormy sky she spoke to him like stars, light years from afar she held him as the cosmos were destined to align
I’m basically looking for the right words to tell a story
that creates sense of all my past mistakes.
I’m an idiot for sure.
But I’m a passionate idiot.
She put down her pen
and released herself
to the world, renewed.
Purpose became her passion
finger paint and prose,
the poet taught them miracles.
The finest ever known.
I never met an artist I didn’t like
I just tasted their breathe
from an arms length away
when they told me drunkenly
to go to hell
at least I knew they meant it
so while she tore off her clothes
like a caged animal
in the center of a Williamsburg high-rise
a slave to her own bizarre fashion
I could see it there, her passion
exhibited like a gallery of fine art
and her hair
painted in oils hyper-realistic
she would drive herself wild
though couldn’t quite blend her canvas
into the madness she became
closing the cage I left
there wasn’t more I could do
than allow her the respect and dignity
to clean up her own mess.