A painting weeps
for it lost it’s painter
as it turned on itself
in self-admiration.

Now it grinds together
it’s leaves and sounds
and people and planes,
hoping to find in their clay
the golden glue
that held it straight.

Bribing its sky
to bleed it’s blue
and reveal the secret mirror behind
that stored his gaze
while he drew.

O noisy chatter
of forms wobbling and unsure,
you cover a hand
that in its wait
is nailed to the canvas
as it matures,
and each colour
finds it’s place in the rainbow.