• Lines of paint march across the canvas.
    You shoot them, one by one.
    They look like frozen fireworks -
    Those are trees, you tell me.

    Behind the cracked orange sun
    hiding amongst the trees
    lies a hollow steel pipe.
    That is the city,
    which you cannot reach.

    It needs a road, I whisper.
    Deliriously, you agree.
    Twisting the brush between your fingers.
    Collateral damage.

    Scanning me quietly
    through your feverish green eyes
    is something sinister.

    I am rooted to the spot.

    Today is Day 364.
    Every inch the frustrated artist,
    you stand aside and watch
    as roses begin to bloom
    beneath my skin.