Paintings. (Love's Loud Moments) Poem by Butch Decatoria

Love is the exquisite pain
The poetry of sultry rain,
in unison, our breathing,
Hot blooded
Fogging the windows.

the hollow siroccos moan
cold grey lonely down
Hallways dim
VelvetSorrows
Blackened
Walls of deep new moon
Devoid of our lungs' rapacious
illustrations

Even now in memory's wisps
How exquisite in the frame
Picturesque recollections
Polaroids for the finalities of farewell.

It's only us / ghosts now
Without / but dust / once was
None-such
Eyes / dilate…
Can emptiness be
Felt
Flagrant glaciers
Enflamed diminishment?

(Seems the loud moments remain)

Clouded reasons all its thundering
All intentions deigned,
Defeated slump with
No dire aches
Mumbling, a corpse heavy mind

Lacking a fleet of feeling
to combat self hateful
Blight.
Gloom
Palpable like the taste of smoke
Fire blooms
That carries warning signals to the sun
Climbing with native drums
Going
Almost
Gone
Thewill o' whispering past...

Yet shadows are forgetful in dreams
As we are sleeping to wake
In the beams
Memory echoing from touch
Our bodies quake...
Inspired by much of
Hearts rush

And still the loudest feelings remain
An old painting in its frame

Our art
the body of
heaven pouring in

You and I remain
Born not made

Love our loudest moment:

Canvas to frame/
A window and the rain...