painting the sea

When I lived by the sea I painted only mountains,

Now I live near the mountains and paint only the sea. 


That’s it. 

That’s the story. 

There is no other end to this story, 

no alternative beginning. 


It tells so clearly

the story of my heart.

It’s not a story I understand.  


I am forever pulled in two directions,

never settled in the place I’m planted. 


I can’t stop painting the ocean,

it’s taken up root in my veins. 

And torn all the curtains 

asunder. 


My chest cavity smells of salt

and winds contained inside a bony prison. 


I am not as I once was. 

I long to leave,

and is that not the tale these footsteps tell. 


I was not made for this life,

and isn’t that a lie.

Still the blood does fall,

and so to do I. 

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