Canvas dripping watercolour
or squirming in acrylic.
Paper pores closing their mouths
as the smell of life turned cold
permeates the room.
Paper pores squeezing their eyes
shut tight to the darkness.
Colours greying with the damp
running in rivulets down the walls
and they breathe – collapsed lungs
beneath wrinkled skin.
An open coffin of art
without names and indecipherable signatures.
An open coffin of brick,
crumbling like chalk.
A murky purgatory for things
somebody once loved.
The title is a sentence taken from The House With The Stained-Glass Window by Żanna Słoniowska.
Poem: © Kristiana Reed 2020