finger painting in ash

some days
the melancholia
is rusted iron chains
threaded through
every corridor of
my mind’s cathedral
the picturesque glass
detailing the arabesque landscape
an afterimage of hell
across the idyllic images
of smiling faces
holding hands
a bitter hint at hope in decline
as the world crumbles
around them

i lay on my back
suspended high above
the marble edifices
to love long forsaken
finger painting the ceiling
a sobbing michelangelo
with childish drawings
of drunken father’s
abusive mothers
and lovers looking
for the next great escape
the sun smiles
but it has ill intent
as the blood rains
from vacant eyes
to drown them both

it is hard to convey the loss
with clumsy fingers
dipped in primary colors
unsure of mixtures
to unleash a full spectrum
of heady depression
to amaze the audience of one
weeping openly
in the worn pews of
absolute dedication
dedicated to keeping
the fire of impassionately
discarded insolent love
too stupid to see it was
malformed in the kiln
within his chest

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