The Painter

The canvas stretches a dancefloor wide,

Each stroke lays down a lover by my side.

Scent of paint, respite sweet,

My relaxation now complete.

My hand trembles, brush in motion,

Fear gripes me in writhing devotion.

Paranoia rakes my mind unsteady,

Like a child, uncertain but ready.

Memories of actions done unkind,

No matter how hard, actions can’t unwind.

A path I chose, but didn’t design,

A child trapped, no key to find.

I paint with care, each stroke with skill,

But thoughts of guilt they haunt me still.

Anxiety rises as the colors spill

Upon the dancefloor, they mingle and fill.

The brush, it moves, as if to speak,

Of secrets held, so dark, so bleak.

With each stroke, my heart it beats,

A child fumbling with new mystique.

Brush and paint, dance and fight,

A tango of love and spite.

Each stroke a step, each hue a mate,

Every breath a rhythm, affection and hate.

But in this dance, I take the lead,

Possessing brush with trembling need.

My partner paint, so bright and bold,

Follows close, but not controlled.

Our steps are quick, our movements deft,

Each new expression is a moment left,

of memory etched upon the page,

A dance that leaves me without breath.

As the tango draws to a close,

My mind turns black and a cancer grows.

What else is there now to ever know?

The thought of joy leaves me more exposed.

The dancefloor twists and churns with a turn,

Memories yearn and then start to burn.

Pain felt, so harshly earned,

Beyond the point of no return.

With zeal, I paint and hope to find,

Images that I can’t rewind.

A glimpse of beauty, pure and kind,

My childlike view of the world defined.

The paint drops, mocking my state,

A mind so locked in feelings of hate.

Each stroke rocks, and feelings abate,

Unknown and blocked, my fears to sate.

The work all done. I stand and stare.

At some forgotten life laid bare.

Memories that always dare.

In my mind, they’re always there.

A painted mirror of the past,

Constant reminder that our deeds last.

Somewhere deep a furnace blasts,

Against a chill that cannot last.

Colors fade, the canvas dries,

Reflecting now a life of lies.

Memories that always rise,

Stoking fears that never die

And as I lay the brush to rest,

I know that I have done my best.

The paint, the smell, the colors bright,

A child of naivete, born just last night.