The Painter


You said you painted flowers
so they would never die,
and you hung on your walls
the ghosts of oil and acrylic like
a stamp of nature on these cement
walls-
Canvas hung up like skeletons in
your closet when you closed
your door so silently and left the
room to wash itself in
moonlight.
When you told me you were
tired of this world, I never
could have imagined that
the soil beneath was
more appealing than the
shadows on these gas-spilled
streets-
Funny how tulips now grow
from between your ribs as though
to try and make a gallery among
your bones-your very soul
staying true to its mantra until the
end.

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