Chagall self portrait with a clock in front of crucifixion draft

How I disregard most everything in moments of melancholy Perhaps all the bad needs to be in the shade, scrubbed out but for the shadow Lingering retinol image, haunting as it links past to present to forever And how parts of a terrible story are still beautiful, brightly coloured to rest my weary head on I'm so aware I'm the painter, painting 'what is' but painfully with palette in hand, not painting what could be There is no gloss, our eyes look at you to decide I'm trapped within, part of what is a picture made of parts I didn't forget Though I don't wish it on anyone Even in the worst moment of time, there is love and there is hope Some days I gaze upon this image and see beyond it, see what became after that moment On days like today, the day fades to grey and I carry the load myself, become the load Somehow everything is at once The edit is missing We aren't taking anything one step at a time It's all thrown together, like this draft Time may slap me round the face or cheer me on or flee, leaving me unfinished to pass forward burden Is that how we all got here? The final sum of each life's weight? But I don't fade with all of this Maybe none of this is mine to bear I should question my choice to stare at it The fault is the hooks in my skin Leaking out light Tethering me here Making it look like I'm choosing this spot