blithely bumbling around the gallery,
Gogh's muse hums a mellifluous melody,
perfecting the sirens' serenade.

“Sunflowers"
aim to imitate him–
attempt to capture
his golden hues.
with a satin jacket
stained by sulfur
and a crown adorned
with canary down,
he's yellow pigment
personified.
he beams,
and blossoms bloom for him–
i bloom for him.

is he sunshine?

he rests on the bench
beside me, warming my skin
with his rays–
feelings soon to fade;
he extracts a switch blade
and incises the wood with profanities,
desecrating this temple of treasures–
a temple created for him.

i wipe honey from my lips and
dab vinegar on my wrists–
drain reverence from my eyes
and withdraw into myself
like withering wisterias.

he makes a buzzing sound in my ear; i flinch.

grazing the honey bee inked on my wrist, he asks,
"why do you fear the creatures you adore?"

i gaze solemnly into his eyes
and my tongue, heavy with premonition, replies,
"because my beloveds brandish the longest knives."