The pictures that I paint myself in the sleepless dark,
Keep building, resolving, repeating,
brush strokes finding one another,
Testing and reapplying,
with no light to shine upon the stretching surface.
No way to see the edges.
Or touch the gilded frame.
In the deep alone again,
stories twitch and nag for attention,
Poetry forming, shaping,
answering this days unmentionables,
Layering pregnant verses,
That in the seeping dawn deep drain.
The story’s happy ending gone,
A night of grappling angels,
Leaving only aches and waste,
Nothing but the bruises,
and the grief of certainty.
Another sleepless night,
Another dreaming black,
Another carried scar.
Tomorrow rest may come.
PICTURA POESIS 