The Dark Inspires

The second brother, 

wears skirts. 

In secret, 

When the lights are out, 

And the night is still, 

He is singing. 
Living lonely like this, 

Letting life escape outside, 

For a breath of air, 

Setting loose his urgency, 

Within a hidden harbour, 

Upon the careful ground, 

Of a cave, 

Whose secret is never sure. 
Not nearly enough, 

But for now it works, 

Like being practised, 

Before the bacchanal, 

In front of multitudes.

The many limbs, 

Will want him limber, 

And versed in arts, 

The dark hides, 

At the bottom of its heart. 
The full bland canvas, 

It is co-opted, 

And every day, 

It is surveyed carefully.

The minute spaces, 

Filed away, 

With shopping trips, 

Meals and Weather, grey. 
While the birds outside chirp, 

The painter lounges,

Uninspired, 

Tracing butterflies, 

Not with a brush, 

But with his longing eyes. 
When the dark descends, 

And hulking shoulders, 

Stand guard, 

The air cannot appreciate, 

The silent senses, 

He presents. 

The page, 

Renewed of life, 

Lapses with him in revelry, 

Dribbling, doused in colour, 

The very essence of, 

Their mutual care. 

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