The soul of the man is hidden, not under his skin
But in the brush strokes of the painting he crafted.
Delicate brush strokes,
As a sense of darkness envelopes the masterpiece,
Hanging over the characters.
The man with no eyes, woman with no clothes
As she stares out the window, imagining her escape
From the world he created.
As the house she sits in is engulfed in flames,
As he sits in the freshly cut grass, unable to
Register the vibrant colors of the world he lives in,
As fire and ash stain the world around him.
Optimism hides in the confines.
Cardinal on the windowsill, singing his song
To the woman, keeping her company until
Her world catches up with her,
As a blue sky sits beyond the confines of the curtains,
Stained with fire and ash.
The man sits in the freshly cut grass,
Listening to the song the cardinal sings,
Maybe it’s meant for him, or maybe for her.
Or maybe the song is meant to envelope
The world he created.
Or maybe it’s meant to help them escape,
From the tragedies
Of the world he created.