The vast ocean of a winter night
outside his frosty window

tattered maroon carpet
beneath aching wooden legs

thousands of worn pages
drowning the room
in a sea of delicate ink pearls

he sits at his tiny piano
shoes melting into the floor
puffing deep thought through

his kaolin pipe rubbed smooth
by the years
that have now become as hazy
as his gray smoke

he stares with tired eyes
like dying candles
across the musty room

Monet’s blurred pink lilies sinking,
bleeding into vivid purple ponds
kept alive only by an old wooden frame

he tries to find himself
but sees only Monet’s mud
in the mirror

the fuzzy residual memories
of a colorful dream

his eyes drift down to his own canvas
trembling at the familiar wrath of
his veiny, calloused hands
and he dreams once more