drowning in broad strokes
of her brush so brash
I stood at the forefront
in backdrops of ash
with each newfound pass
pigments pressing conspired
composing the ocean
of mirth turned to mire
encircled in lunar sands
reticent scorn
obscured by the obelisk
spiraling forth
obstinate breast
of abrasiveness bellows
abundance of hues strewn
adorning her pillow
blissed apparition
of petals impearled
presaging solitude
of two stagnant worlds
Max, or Not 