Life in Abstract

Life is painted in abstraction,
the way your love was always
ultra violet, and burned through
the pores of my skin, a spreading

The impartial truths,
numb lies, which hide
behind green eyes
and rising smoke leaving me
held suspended in all the
varying shades of black and gray.

An Impressionism which at first
from the distance vaguely
resemble the shape of men
but the closer you become
the more it begins to fade
into blurred lines.

Cubic-like you are all sharp angles,
hard edges, cutting,
uninviting, and yet with a strange
foreign allure,
you cut to the bone,
severing ligaments.

Dream-like I submerge
myself in pigments,
transfixed by the way your eyes
dance like a prism,
but soon I find myself drinking
turpentine, erupting
an inferno it burns my vision away,
and once more I am lost
within gray-scale.

Only rarely
does a Caravaggio appear,
turbulent, unpredictable,
even imperfect,
but with a beauty that is at once
breathtaking, and unforgettable,
revealing a depth of secrets
but without guile,
there is no obscura
only a brutal sort of honesty.