Roe Two

A painter of religious scenes, she dabs another glaze, a thirty-year-old has been, regards the work that's honed, never wise in this game, doubts she's ever alone, in yellow nights of dreams, even if she feels the same, it's not what it seems, the canvas lets her roam, the stretch of wooden nails, in many ways she's gone, a matchstick in the sea, lost without a name, floating for eternity, the work is not her own, the pull of certain days, is like some ocean zone, her body aches without relief, deep burned eyes are crazed, her mind is never easy, she sets another frame.