Beyond midnight, blades of moonlight cut the room
as sips of sangria scissor sobriety
and life begins to recede, dissolving like watercolour,
as stars pour liquid light into this crystal chateau.
Who could forget a life such as mine?
I sculpted my memories, crafting cubist thoughts,
and each road travelled, each wrong turn taken,
blurred the liquid lines and melded, moulding my art.
Small hours paint me midnight blue tranquil,
stilling the sudden stutter of my surreal heart,
though morning's jaundiced light will etch me -
a still life, sketched in bile-yellow.