Emma

A painter of religious scenes, she dabs around a glaze, a thirty-year-old dream, regards the work she’s honed, abandoned to this game, it’s never set in stone, yellow days of sunbeams, she always feels the same, images not what they mean, the canvas lets her roam, a stretch on wooden nails, in many ways she's gone, a matchstick in the sea, bobbing without a name, floating for eternity, work is hard to own, laughs come day to day, in this ocean town, her head cries for relief, sunken eyes go missing, her mind is never easy, she nails another frame.