emanate off a dry canvas,
colors of life threaten
to invade and colonize
the whiteness of the space,
taking with it, her virginity.
It has never been discovered,
nor exposed to such magnitude.
It has never been stroked before,
always vacant, like the palms
of her hands.
She sat across the canvas,
legs parted, slightly for balance.
A wooden brush clasped tightly
between her fingers, long and smudged on the tips.
This was how it was done. Focus onto
And she stroked with grace,
This was the great dance,
the movement of spirit and will
transpiring between two lovers.
It was about the give and take.
The pause. The reactions.
The flow. She thought
of Van Gogh, a smile
lifted her face.
It did not feel wrong, or right.
It was not complete.
It was a reflection, a self portrait.
Reflections change, grow and become one
with oneself. There has to be closure.
So she thought, again,
“Let yourself bleed.”
And a voice spoke:
“Throw the lessons into the fire,
let the ashes speak!
Let it rupture and scream wildly.
Do not shy away, push. Dab. Dab
a little faster, let the madness consume you!
Lose yourself! Yes! There we go.
Soak yourself in my blood,
as I bleed onto you.
Combinations aren’t vital.
It is the way you stroke yourself
onto the nakedness, taking away its purity,
replacing death and the bland
taste on lovers lips, with life.”
Copyright @ Author V.S. Atbay
From: Epiphany A Collection of Poems
Publisher: Friesenpress, 2013.