My mind is blank.

Let us revel in this threshold of inner peace.

Complete inaction, in its purest form.

At the easel, there is nothing I can add.

This canvas is beautiful. 

Its splendor is indescribable; evoking some

Primal, guttural love.

I can’t help but feebly express how it makes me feel.

My tarantella pales in comparison to that of Nora;

but still I violently celebrate my freedom.

No longer a marionette–

I am what I am and love what I want.

To outsiders, he may shriek paleness 

or feed dissonant whispers of artistic ineptitude.

But each fiber of my being can align with those of

this coarse, vanilla, and interwoven stabile.

It is my muse and in my brief reprieve from the outside;

It cradles me.

I need no one else to define what fulfills or satiates

my constant disarray.

Leave me be with my inerrant companion.