PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

The vowels ignite —

black anchors, white lightning,

red wounds, green swamps, blue halos.

The alphabet is no longer a chant

but a cathedral of fire,

a stained‑glass howl

that melts sound into pigment.

And I am hurled into the sea —

a drunken hull, a trembling sail,

the moon a yellow wound above the waves.

The horizon tilts, the foam is crimson,

and I capsize into color, into salt,

into Vincent’s trembling hand.

Flames devour my tongue.

Ash replaces my body.

The sea is black,

the stars drip molten blood.

This is no altar but a furnace,

and I am the sacrifice,

the painter the priest of fever.

The city tilts, windows leer,

streets burn with impossible hues.

Neon is my scripture,

hallucination my gospel.

I walk through towers that breathe,

through colors that shriek,

through light

that devours me whole.

And at last the road flees

beneath me, violet and gold.

I dissolve into the horizon,

a shadow swallowed by the sky.

Departure is not escape —

it is the only prayer left.

The brushstroke itself

walks on without me.

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