shapes of blue

I will envy the birds upon whose wings 

the crimson rays of a lying sun fall, 

a wine that courses through the lungs of things 

pulses now and threatens to silence all.

But the way vodka sauce paints the canvass

of every kitchen I’ve ever danced in,  

the ceaseless tide and unsteady sky kiss 

between the people I have never been. 

I scream through doors, echoes in midnight hues

that find their way across the walls I breathe.

I do not feel their pretty shapes of blue 

and cannot return to the winding sea—  

do you now hear me locked within this house,

a madness felt by those who go without.

After The Scream, Edvard Munch