Picasso Blue: 1903

the gallery faded,
a blur, a phantasm, a mask
he allowed his eyes;
he accepted anything in this
flamboyant state, his mind
aflame with contradictions.

misty-eyed, he searched
the paintings, first from afar
then closer, closer.

(oh, yes, his expert eyes
were swollen now, painting’s blue-green
hue an iridescent blockage,
almost an inebriation.)

steadying himself, fingers
to wall, he wished for tears, but
none came.

such expertise he had
promised, but these fits mesmerized
his ego, forcing him to forget.

(often now he thought of windows,
opened to rain, to wind,
to disaster.)

leaving now, he closed his eyes,
rings of scalding orange
buffeting his brain.

(how could he return,
now that he had promised?)

but daylight brought back echoes,
those lightning sharp images
he knew, and black ink
would capture the staccato
regurgitations from memory’s cave.