I do not frame this piece, yet it returns like clockwork,
unmasked and unfazed.
A gallery stained in crimson gold, where I the artist,
drift as a ghoul.
Each frame a hymn, the world wont hold, and still i paint,
though no one's told.
It is neither a guest, nor a passing ghost,
but etched into the soft skin i boast.
It paints me gold, then makes me whole,
the only carving to shape my soul.
It calls each month, I lose, I mold, I bloom, I break,
in stories old.
We all are vessels of this tide, but mine,
has never passed me by.
It is not bound to any name, nor bound to a secret,
or shape or fame.
I used to scrub the canvas clean,
now i let the white linen gleam.
No more war, no more grief,
just quiet strokes and quiet relief.
It stays, not for the eyes to see,
but kept because it painted me.
The piece remains, it will never fade,
hung in the gallery, my tides have stayed.