No.
the curtain. is not.
justfuckingblue...

--

the curtain is ennui wrapped in suicidal tendencies
lit only by the bright red of sharp dusk slits on duskier wrists
wrought open in the futility of reading between the lines
writ in blood, writ in cries for help, writ in superficial silences;
sacrficial upon self-reflection yet selfish to a stranger

--

the curtain is tragedy in a tapestry
illustrating intricacies of deceit and misfortune in the cracks
illuminated only when the sun chooses to carve out
an otherwise perfect household
casting malicious shadows on the smiling stock photos
now torn asunder to lay as dust under dustier sofas

--

the curtain is the rift between the harsh yellow and the drowned out red
march-stroll-crawl plodding along the tight rope
above the toppled chair
standing upright in my orange-green mind
with juices and grasses and bushes and suns that don't burn
blue; there's not enough oxygen in that world for the blue
flames my brush cannot mix into existence with innumerable palattes
no matter how much i eat
in this room for dining, for living, for bedding, for drawing

--

i am still stuck behind these crayon drawn curtains of tranquility.
does that make them my peace?
my bleak blue doves picking me apart with their beaks
piecing me together in this cyclical nisha of complacen-

--

ah!

--

it dawned on me then why i came to poetry:
i am both doves
and i will make each puzzle piece purposeful in its rhythm,
because behind the blue curtain is the eureka in my name
and an everlasting orange-green sun.