The Painter

If we can, there is a picnic table 

Dripping with excursions and promises, 

But I, bemused, 

Lay myself down today...

To what I ask not anymore of, from certain things. 

Soaking in a bathtub, 

And cloaked with gown, 

The water is raining in ceilings high, 

And I choose, I choose, 

To walk the night sky; 

I choose, I choose to put this life down, 

And walk in the parade of "crazy town". 

You beckon me, then deny me on the grounds that I'd ever respond,

And if this is life, then I am in crazy town. 

Porcelain, paint, and words, with coloured hands, as she makes a mess of what's inside, without. 

She...walks away, then leaves, then returns and means, 

To turn and go again, but can not. 

He throws her out with the dogs, but watches her walk, in the farthest distance, turning around, she considers walking back. 

And black, seems to be oozing like charcoal and tar around hearts here...

She knowing, 

Stays with the demons, to live him and be loved by him; 

He throws her out again with the dogs, but Not before bringing her in for a conversation. 

That is the world she lives in. 

But she knows she can walk away, 

Any time. 

Or so she tells herself. 

Or so she says.