it was always me, marking the end
it was always me, leaving them bent

perhaps this is karma, him smearing away
the yellows on my canvas, with a dulling grey

using his hands, the strokes out of place
with his closed eyes, and his sunken face

the strokes are wild, not drawn precise
this isn’t Van Gogh and his Starry Night

I understood then, my thoughts were misplaced
amidst fire and ice, I had forgotten his face

for his eyes too, were closed out of woe
the dulling grey? a protective stroke