Irish

A winter of religious scenes, she dabs at another frame, stands without belief, regards the bottle, men she's honed, stay away from that game, doubtful if she's ever alone, in yellow nights of dreams, even if she looks the same, it's not what it seems, the canvas lets her be, painting's like a wooden nail, a matchstick in the sea, in many ways she's gone, lost within her name, the work is not her own, the pull of certain Liberty, never really eases the pain, her body ticks with heat, deep burnt eyes this day, her work sets her free, even if she has no energy, she's knows no other way.