He

Marrying the Artist

by the power of His
whimsical stirring palette
my brains become blood
and gore

enclosed in the dainty lace
grasp of His softened hands

by the soft light
of an insomniac's nightlight
He begins to paint
the stretched canvas
tugged over my skeleton
with a carving knife

call that impasto.

all the hues of the melancholic
He dips into electric indigo as

blueberry bruises bloom
on my squeezed, tightly shut
eyelids

poised as a mannequin
or a static punching bag

i take the escapist pisces pill
and swallow it down
like the yellow paint
of van gogh

all the while
black and blue and tortured
by His daylight advances

i hope we may marry in the twilight eve

- ©️ Mars Saturnia