monochrome


flowers and clouds
are fucking ugly
says the painter
who dabs her
brush in an open
vein and swirls
the color life
on a thirty by
twenty canvas
in the shape
of something
less ordinary
where her stallions
leap across
water while her
dead orchids
suffocate under the
sun without
so much as
a whimper
she makes the wind
blow through
the blades of grass
that subtitle
these elements
and satisfied with
playing god she
steps back to
admire the view
for several moments
reminiscing her
childhood as seen
through the old-woman
eyes given by
our father time
there were many
lives like this
that had simply
disappeared over
her shoulder
for there is
no proper way
of appreciating
now as a part of
one’s life if
we are limited
to two extremes
memory and anticipation
each being perfect
for one another
as black is to white
without stipulations
or variations of hue
and having realized this
she lets a few
more drops of
pain draw from the
scene onto the floor
holding this
thirty by twenty
still life to her chest
then turning to
the sun and opening
the window and
hurling the little girl
she was out
into the pond
watching the rainbows
sink to the bottom
before throwing down
her brush and
muttering how she
always thought
black and white
was more colorful




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