And what of the night, Titian?
What of the night?
It is all I have now, Titian.
It is my only light.

By moon and star I see.
In absence I see greater.
In torch and candle, hearth is he
who changed me for the better.

But what of night Titian?
What of the weary night?
Such webs imprudent spun!
I begged.

He laughed.
I never thought the change would hurt so much.
Ah, wicked was the whoreson’s touch.
He laughed.

Spirited away into a void,
suspended in nothingness.

Moving pictures
of life flash by,
momentous moments
pause in transit,
allowing one
last celebration
of remembrance.

Instances of sorrow
smear sight,
the wretchedness tears
new holes in regret,
stamping days
that cross the soul
with melancholy.

Closing the shutters
of consciousness,
slipping into the
divine form,
swimming through
the dying river,
finally letting go

The paint flew in heliotrope
splashes
wet splurge

On canvas
on rooftop
on studio floor

speckled sprayed smeared
a fist of vermillion
POW!
a gloved chartreuse
azure was tender
THUMP!

The punches for real
all pent up fury
and poverty

The gallery needed action
the artists needed cash
so spectacled
ridiculed
a school of performing
paintbrush limbs

I saw you swing
a lantern like a star
above your head,
you waved
and maybe called my name,
or sang it as
you'd often do
somewhere between
a whisper and a sigh

I clambered through
the rising mist
looking for you,
but then you disappeared,
and all that howled
was the empty wind
through a gaping cavity.

The world capsized
or I tripped
perhaps,
in a tumble of earth
and broken wings.