Under stormy skies,
My mind is an art gallery,
A museum of ideations,
An asylum of nightmares,
Portraits and landscapes aplenty,
Disparate images of chaotic vivacity,
The price of entry a forlorn spirit,
The exhibits are of heart-breaking intentions,
Fantasies scrawled in ink and charcoal,
Grisly outcomes and self-chastisement,
Brushstrokes wishing for things sour,
Held in frames specked in self-harm ruby,
It is a dark place,
A hell I keep under wraps,
A location best left locked,
But at times it trills out,
Calling to that theatre of suicides,
And impelling me to stay within its halls.
I said a prayer.
Too kind my friend.
The Oldschool Harlequin