oil on panel, 30in. x 40in. ±55.9cm. x 45.7cm.
Wrapped embers, red flickers, like cinder in the wool,
unbright but burning through
I wonder what it is that makes each day anew
Peace as I may crave?
Fear as I may grave?
Which one leads to love, and gifts a greater life?
Which one brings a chill, and casts a colder fight?
I'm trapped inside this room, this dark womb of my concerns
Such solitude of night invents these fevered turns
Such thoughts, such threads, like toxins in my head
Or are they poisons bled?
Spun blessings here instead?
Plucked plums, pen-named, as dread?
These fears, these quandaries, these fortunes freely fed
So roughly understood, so ghostly imprecise
Like curtains, red burdens massed of might
Restless little verdins that stitch a nightly sight?
The quandaries, the quandaries
Are they men or mice?
I don't know, I don't know
The thing is
I don't know
Through the ceiling, to the light
Will I grow old, regress - see less and turn to stone?
To the light
Will I go blind without my night?
Or will I thrive inside that light?