red paint dries black

[cryptomancer]

I strike the small brush of red,

And flare its paint to life,

Bright in the tint it shows,

Inner light its hues chose,

Wakening the walls to the show.

Inside my head, walls reform,

In my mind I am reborn.

Music fades to my touch,

Doors close, sealed without a latch,

Surfaces glow as the paint starts to catch.

Windows to my soul grow dim,

Only the shining paint shows within,

Sitting stealing the lyrics begin.

‘Paint it black’ my pretty paint of flames,

Upon each memory, does just that.

 

Lock them in their little holes,

Nail the doors, braced with poles,

No thoughts of you can now escape,

No longer will they my mind take,

Dreams of you no longer keep me awake,

Meticulous artist I have been,

Each red stroke dries black in steam,

Echoes drift and fade around,

All my memories piled high,

Burn it down.

 

[Preprise]

Very compelling and terrifying.

[Ozymandias]

I echo with a "Holy crap."

 

You shift gears so abruptly yet smoothly by the line "Lock them in their little holes" that it flows as realistically as going for a nice, peaceful drive, then suddenly being slammed into by an oncoming car you didn't see does.

 

My only complaint is the line "Wakening the walls to the show." That was the only point in the whole thing where I actually had to stop and search for what something meant (what walls?, to be specific) in a poem that otherwise ran like water.

 

VICIOUS water.