The Painting
I see a painting —
colorful and chaotic,
like the mind of a soldier
returning home from war.
Now I enter the painting,
a wildfire of experience:
blue flames of past lives
leaping at my feet,
then diminishing
to gemlike embers
whispering of immortality.
Sometimes I feel at home here.
Sometimes I feel afraid.
Sometimes I feel nothing
but the dark press
of my ancestors’ hands
reaching through the veil.
I am the painting —
swirls and curls
of beguiling light,
every movement guided
by an infinite golden streaming
that tells me how much it loves me
claims me as its own,
then nudges me into
the red velvet abyss.