Half-Past Three (The Poet), Marc Chagall
I sit in scarlet-slashed silence
refusing to permit the
piercing dark
to stain the sky with ugliness ~
so forgive the
receptors of resilient rectangles;
I witness smoke of confusion
drifting through
a distorted perspective
while ink bleeds
3 a.m. across the caffeinated canvas
where crimson
crowns blurred
borders of boundaries,
leaving no room for twisted tales
to tamper and tweak the truth
of a mind devoted to
peace and poetry ~
while the host of hostility
bereft of humility
plots to curate cortisol
forked within
the silverware of spite
let not the hurt ~
O inverted intruder
teach the bruised blade
to talk in textures
that could trigger
a tormented tornado
beneath ice-cold nails
as karma follows
the feline eyes
of cruel consequences
to your doorstep
I chose to be the current
flowing above unapologetic roses
no longer seeking
validation nor sagas
spoken soundlessly to the stars
I mark the withering
of wickedness
and woeful words
to embrace the
light of Heaven’s house ~
the ultimate ultraviolet
dripping from the
hands of hope
read me as I reweave
a valley of awakened dreams
where desires
spell themselves
in deep blues of devotion
nevermore vainly vulnerable ~
amidst the geography
of gilded grace
crossing the length of my limbs
until I arrive
at a guiltless lane of immutable love…
It’s half past three.
I am fully awake ~
but I am neither
an insomniac nor a sleeper,
merely a word-dreamer
in love with Poetry ...
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