The white room

White, untainted,

a place replete with memories,



I see the mirror in the room,

then my face

with eyes undaunted.

Then the crack of

shattering, spraying glass

in an inevitable fountain

on the floor.


My eyes examine

the jagged forms,

inspecting their irregularity

and the strokes

of red genius

that make them art.


Warm trickles of blood,

mine and hers,

form the painting

and the white

unblemished floor

becomes my gallery.


A dead, still eye

sits in the foreground,

the centre of my masterpiece,

and greets my eyes

in a crystal gaze,

that is held just now,

held in this deathly lucid moment.