Painting lights the fire within my chest,
like bellows blowing in a blacksmith’s forge;
medieval times, no modern easy fix,
plugged in, a fan relying on electrics.
The movement is the pumping in my breast
transmitted to my hands to canvas stretched,
the paint, a trace of rhythms of my heart
like ECG results upon a chart,
responding to those memories I hold,
those memories I shape and melt and mould
like iron hammered in blacksmith’s forge.
