I am underground, where
a dimly lit darkness hangs in the room.
Its coolness is attributed
to cement walls
behind wooden panels.

Sinking into my bed I listen
to the quiet rattling window,
the rush of cars passing by,
and the sinking silence of the house.
A sense of peace could be found,
but only if searched for.

Paintings hang on the purple walls;
pieces of art I created.
The smallest one hangs below
the thick glass window;
the only source of light for the room.

She hangs there,
like the sun in the sky.
I run my fingers over the canvas.
I can feel how it has been thickened
by layers of paint.
The scent of acrylic is calming,
giving feelings of tranquility
and nostalgia.

I recalled the stroke of the brush,
the images of sunsets, tree leaves,
rippling water and white bark.
Birch trees against the sunset,
and my satisfaction
as it came to be.