Five hours of fitful sleep, and pouring
over texts of words that escape
my memory, moments after
There is no Shelley who spins
tales in my head, only images
that do not follow, and phrases
that do not explain.
In earnest, I have seen the sleepy
artist’s palette, her brush dropping
from her fingertips as she dozes,
wakes in a quiet panic, and
tries to recall her vision
that becomes a dream.
There are shades of blue and aubergine
that hint of dusk becoming a
surreal depiction of a sky,
and shades of soft-yellow, quick brush
strokes, unfinished, only groundwork
she will lay to give a seamless glow.
The paint drips together,
swirling without mixing,
firm, linear shapes that
end in a small globe, and
does she see?
Slipping in and out of consciousness,
she might reflect on painting
ahead of her, but she does
and does not see it,
a mirage of collective soul,
dribbled out through boughts of
wakeful tendancy, and