The pacification of oneself amongst the roaches,
That accompany the ash,
Hasten across the pavement,
Litter the once freshly paved cobblestone,
As one paints a portrait.
The painter, myself,
Shaken digits illuminating the unnervingly complacent canvas,
The scent of which brings crackling to the ears and tears to the eyes, Pressure forming as pen hits canvas,
A cohesive silhouette,
The outlining of which blurs my eyes,
Not just from the garish hue,
But of a painter’s audacity,
Stomping the roaches,
And using them for inspiration.
Published first in The Wingless Dreamer’s Memories edition