The hole of a mountain turns to a lake holding bones.

Millard Sheets, Enchanted Island, 1978, acrylic on canvas

Traces of buffalo bone shed our palish skin, 

Like trunks of wild beasts, we share a painful wisdom.

Like a babe, he rocks us, startling, he wishes for our tears.

Wanting us to cry: “So lonesome, so sad”, a blue haze.

Still, we seep sandstone into our blood.

His agonizing grin scares the mountain, pleading for closure.

Yet, we never receive it, the stone grows unbearingly cold.

We don’t want to recall the warmth of a painting, so dull.  

To the birds that love us, that want to rub us free, 

Our cold water stills, we shade and close them away.

We are stuck in a painting of illusion, 

Enchanted by the wisdom of people.

Wishing them to go away,  run back to 1978.

Never to see its puffs of white tears.

“Is that really what we want?”

To be the a**hole for wanting a world alone?

Through the eyes of this painting, I want to be the enchanted island alone.

“Is that what I truly want? To be selfish?”

No, I simply want to enjoy that child-like innocence again.

Where love is not known by white claws of hate.