Odeta

Painters dream of lovers, museums are lonely places, even in silks and linen, you glide across the room, is that really your game, telling the world your gloom, from summer troubles, and different spaces, does this provide a cover, your face, a scar, a swoon, an early grave, that runs before you dissolute, it masks my wonder, a missal to your fame, one masterpiece sunken, in gas lit winter catacombs, leave your scent of trace, heaven for us to look upon, honour, shame, disgrace.