I can't claim to know who designed
the remodeling of your mind,
put the hauntings in the hall, or cobwebbed
the cubbyhole where the guilt bath's a-slosh
with soggy contrition, who made sure
each locked room was robbed;
there's no comforting logic
leaking from a night-light's glow
after the red curse.
No I know nothing
but what you show to the street
or the mob in the alley by the hanging tree:
the work you left out from the architect's sketch,
hate's arsonist hand, the colors gone mad
in flames through the roof,
and after the fire:
larkspur in the ash where light falls oblique
on dead bricks and char, on skeletal feet.
posted for real toads
(18 lines plumbing the depths of a shallow metaphor)
Fire Dance, 1891, by Paul Gauguin, public domain, manipulated
Internet cartoon, author unknown.