Dreamer

I made a portrait out of your squeaky, sweet, beautiful voice,

I made it run colors so wide and loud

I drained it and pulled out the yellow

I drank out the candied butter mellowed sugar pinks.

I tenderly nudged out the smoky bronze

And deep breath browns.

I wished your picture was here with me

Alive and full of the sound

I heard in my heart.

I created a portrait out of my tenderness for you, Jane Eyre,

As any man could,

With my aching eyes I knew no medium could capture your whole vision correctly,

And I lingered in the state of my own mad house,

Drowning in cold tea colors that were worse than gray lifeless bodies,

As my dreams of you sat on top of a majestic plain,

And the crippling crutch of dark wings that pretend to care for me,

Stuffing my face with colors that taste like iron and rusted gold.