Pacing, as a hummingbird spins her wings
and tiny frame, not frantic, but gracefully
as Paavo Oso and his art,
impassive to his muse,
what shall ruminating speak this time?
The canvas still clean.
Once upon a time…
he felt the lascivious rage within
his rags, threads reaching to the sky –
as the woman came near,
her words of an alluring prompt stated,
“Well now, blah, blah, blah,”
The same ol’ same ol’.
Paavo Oso, curiously sinful.
Though now dry and deadened,
memories continue to be etched
upon his heart of a mis-guided eros
from too much misuse and exploitation,
as a boy-teen,
women, cruel and ruthless,
the adversaries of enmity.
Though the muse waits for only the gifted.
His page of white, as
a canvas panel,
begins to fill with black notes
that hit their target, as Cupid rises to strike
another innocent heart.
All in all, its still the same, God rules
the human heart, awaiting only the sound
of a corrupt humanity’s single verbal,
“Yes! O Christ, I will follow you
to the grave, and back!”