Painter
With hurried steady footsteps
She rushes into the dark room
And clutches Her brushes
In a grip of passion,
Emptying the paints
All into a mess on the floor
Where the colors lie in a concoction
Intertwined, imperfect.
—
So She dips into them
And starts to paint
On Her body –
On every curve, every crevice,
On every edge
With colors so vibrant
They could blind the sky.
With brush-strokes fervent and flawed,
She paints –
Endlessly, till the break of dawn.
—
And when there’s no inch left
Uncovered,
She shuts Her eyes
And slips to the floor
In a slumber so deep
Not even the Sun can wake Her up.
Only She can,
Only if She wants to.