The Sleepwalker

Rp Verlaine

Too delicate

in your fine silks

but your eyes unfettered

and your tongue removed

if you had to talk

without aid of drink.

I paint the obscure details

of each day that

age quickly like fat

worms on a skeleton

looking for meat.

I get so much done

that I get nothing done the limits

of sleepwalking are vast.

I measure progress

in minutes not the hours

drugs release me from thinking.

3 days at last count

but the mirror hints

it's been longer

since I slept.

With another painting done

one year after your death

I may even have the talent

you called a mirage.

But it is time for leisure

so all can see me walk

through the town

one hand with a paint brush

the other with your still beating heart.