And how can
one go mad
Buttercup,
when one is already
crazier than a loon?

Does one get madder
through self-indulgence?
Pray tell me please,
put my mind at ease,
Buttercup.
Should I drink
a whole bottle of mezcal,
burn an ounce of herb or
snort a mountain of flake?

Oh, I do ache, Buttercup!
But should I
buy a Hummer,
spend my money
on frivolous things,
like endless raindrops?

Oh Buttercup,
how do you
keep your pain
in check?

Through
these
restless situations?

I think
methinks
not.

The sprouting buttercup
dangles into the purpled,
doting sky. It's waxy spangles
nuzzle the moist,
crisply dewed, fluff
whilst billowing across merry air. 

The yellow buttercup
dozes in spiced, lean dapples,
setting its soul ablaze in sumptuous echoes at the sheer
drape of dawn.

The teacup buttercup
outspreads it's wings
amongst tall spiked grasses
and wild flowers.
Shifting shafts and shards
of grass and glass
and forever awaiting the larks cry
which means its time to die.

The brush is still in the garage
on the cold, cement floor
beside the empty tin of paint,
its sides eternally dripping
with a dried, buttercup hue.

The walls which we smothered with color
are faded, now riddled with children’s earthy hand-prints
after a day in the mud. A mess to us,
the results of battles, safaris,
and space travels to them.

I could paint over the marks,
start over fresh and show off to friends.
But I think I’ll let it be.
No longer the bright yellow of a sun trapped in a painting,
these four walls have still brightened many days.

There has been roaring laughter,
divided by a few screaming matches
that have made the dog whimper.
This room has seen much of our lives,
and life cannot be painted over so easily.

So it stays. The color will always be buttercup to me.