Saturday, 13 February 2016


Originally Written in 2011

The painter gets home drunk on fury,
Storming the studio in the early hours.
By the window gleams his painting
Steeped in red and gold.

The painter's mind springs free from its cage;
He yanks the picture from its perch;
Takes a knife to every brushstroke
And cuts ideas down.

Waking, crying, he stumbles into the studio
And then he wept the more
At flakes of paint on the tiles
Like leaves upon the shore.

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