Prelude (half-whispered)
They say I’m drawn, but I feel erased.
A carnival of colors hums too loud.
I nod politely to the chaos and call it composition.
My snout breathes like punctuation—
a question mark gone dizzy.

The Gentle Collapse of Pigment

Purple leans on red. Red leans on blue.
No one holds still long enough to mean anything.
Faith is tired today; it drools a little gold.
Ich bin ein Schwein im Nebel,
half sacred, half scribble.
I exist in the hesitation between two brushstrokes.
That’s where the oink hides now.

Interlude: The Listening That Never Comes

I speak softly in marker tongues.
No one translates.
Paper listens, maybe —
or pretends to.
My lines ache from pretending to be cheerful.
The colors keep dancing; they haven’t noticed.

Epilogue in Pink and Brown

I no longer wish to sparkle,
only to rest in matte.
Let the blue hum without me for a while.
Let the red burn on its own.
DADA calls it abstraction.
I call it:
breathing very quietly,
until it feels like enough.