PRAYER

I was the knife.
The flower was the stare.
And the canvas - a shrine of hesitation.

They did not come. They slithered.
Teethed petals.
Colors that pray backward. 
They do not grow - they obey.

I am each that contorts. Each that writhes in the middle of not.
A bloombeast chewing its own stem, veined in regret, dipped in pigment.

Dada stands in the corner, nude, cackling, spitting on perspective.
"Art is a haunt," he cries.

I nod.
The flower nods back.

The one in the center...
it whispers.
Not in words.
In fractures.

I am not the painter.
I am the creation.

60x80