An emulsion

Puddles of paint on the tips of every

yellow hope that dawns from her chest.

the scent lingers, and the gold mixes with blue

seeping into her nails;

there lies no rest for where she searches for life.

and yet with no respite, her nails trace

her covered canvas-

a performance she paints for those with spite.

there lingers a strange purple,

unnoticed by most- where there is now no hope.

a gold, which she covers

with a cloth so bright that it takes away her light.

and yet she clasps me with her wings

where i can do anything but fly.

she paints me in a feverish voice,

that swallows her heart, where she cries

her captivity is right

sophie