beguile, blue angel

 
she kidnapped me, into that place in her poem.
a field of scarlet crowned flowers, intimidated  
by a spectral wind, beneath a sky that was  
something bolder than a sky. & all this conceived
by a painter whose relentless passion caused him
to hack off his own ear.
 
I don’t understand poetry, it’s so elusive.
it’s conflicting, it’s untamable.
it is also an overdose of euphoria –
the feeling is the same,
whether you’re stoned on art,
or love.
 
and so I blatantly ripped off her ethereal paradise.
I made a bed of her lush meadow, & observed
that fearsome sky; she, by my side.
 
dream on, poet.
it’s not real, it’s a fantasy,
it’s a place I’ve never been…
 
…and yet, it’s so familiar.