You are my every influence within this quick Nolita morning; a faded rose sky turns my fingertips into crystal caverns that cradle warmth into a secret I can hold in my hand.
Such Wilde fantasies I possess of trapping imperfections within a matted glosse finish, the fat over lean, my canvas is heavy dripping inner monologues into a bell whose song is a nightingale sunrise.
I leave Art in my Mirror, not my Faith, something malleable + easily forgotten within an acrylic cage, no sins carved into sunken cheeks + eyes disappearing through grief, cringed & imprinted behind aching eyelids.
No prayers to parch my lips, un-blushed yet aubergine.
The blood will flow within my veins as oil, heavy + glistening with the faintest smell of turpentine to subdue you absinthine with a kiss, warm + sweet.
Wet as decay.
.24.4.12.
About the Creator
Trick Blanchfield
Trick Blanchfield is an Indianapolis author, artist + immaculate shade.
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