O’ for the swirling psychedelic
A non-existent curtain call
Sacrilege yet still angelic
Clairvoyance mixed with alcohol
O’ for the artist lost in trifle
Flamboyance hiding deep despair
Full of stories, always lurking
Somehow something must be there
O, to drunken mirth pulled from the brink
Where sorrows turn the canvas blue
Fade far away, dissolve in ink
The years count up to twenty two
And yet with every paint soaked stroke
The child writhes within the skin
O’ colors that always provoke
The happiness that lives within
To weariness that aches the mind
Brings pinks that paint the summer breeze
And to the anger unconfined
That brings the canvas to its knees
By Rebecca Pannapacker