Reclusive I had been so long
Forgotten the ways of the world
Forgotten the art of speech known
The misty window said outside was cold.
My old, worn, brown jacket
That had seen better days
Now with ink splotches it’s dotted
Signs of my moods and rage.
I took a stroll on the boulevard
Where lost artists set up their easels
The colours of their palette clashed
Against the grey painted by the winter.
Shocked was I to find my songs
Printed on sheets yellowed
Fingerprints and wasted brushstrokes
Accompanied verses of our love now gone.
And such paintings our songs inspired!
Breathtaking; they would leave you speechless
Such talent, yet in the cold they’ve to perspire,
I merely watched as our words took form on canvas.
I continued to stroll when one artist
Cried aloud in despair, and in anger
Rushed to destroy what he had just painted
One of two lovers; he smeared on black and red.
The result seemed beautiful even then
Two bodies writhing in ecstasy or turmoil
I noticed the verse he used; it was my favourite
Reminded me of so much; I paid a sum royal.
Now it adorns the wall above my typewriter
Reminds me of why I’m a recluse in a world of colour
Had I not been a poet, with my whims and swings of anger
Would we be like those paintings, still together?