You were right.
You’re heart only beats,
and there’s something
miswired
in your soul.
Black as you were,
and still are,
I remember you.
And scratching at the surface
with my pen
to understand
I paint your picture.
Every dark color
and nasty need.
The way you pounded
on the ivory keys,
fooled to think
you make music.
I’ll paint you as
I remember you.
And an instinct tells me
to be angry.
Or maybe even
to be afraid.
But no.
Once this painting
is finished,
there you will stay,
never to step into
my mind
again.
Author T.S. Lowe 