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Poem

Take a year to finish a painting. 
He finished building that swing. 
Dismiss your own fear.
Is that a werewolf he can hear?

Take a year to paint a portrait. 
He wonders if he captured every trait. 
Lime green hair, and orange tonsils. 
Swirling paint around in this cup full. 

Paint a landscape as well. 
But then his wrist might start to swell. 
Did a spider bite his arm?
Or maybe it’s his obsession causing him harm. 

I took a painting out of my garage one summer. 
It was covered in werewolf fur. 
A landscape that doesn’t exist. 
Which my grandfather couldn’t resist…

I gave that painting a new frame. 
It was both haunting and tame. 
Opening that old frame, something fell. 
A portrait of a mysterious person made me yell. 

I remember that person from my dreams. 
As impossible as it seems…
I guess my grandfather knew of mysterious people. 
And that landscape is starting to look more real.

I took the old swing down that summer. 
Then I had a dream which haunts me forever. 
If that werwolf could manage to look me in the eye…
There’s nothing left but a swing to untie.

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