The Girl Who Paints The Night

She stretches through the city
like a canvas in the sky.
A repose scales her spine
and leaps to free-fall through her eye.

It’s an old familiar warmth
that grasps her terror by the throat.
A symphonic kaleidoscope
of luminescent notes.

She carries her trauma
like a lung full of smoke.
Each swish of her hips
a cathartic brush stroke.

Shes never spoken
of the moment
that sleighed her innocence.
Instead, she strings the pain
on her bones
and plays the instrument.

The wind carries whispers
that tug at her feet.
The prints she leaves behind
spill sonnets on the street.

The rhythm in her patter
wakes spirits underneath.
The colors in her dreams
seep to saturate the beat.

Onlookers are perplexed by her march
that paints the sidewalk.
The synesthetic aesthetic
herds townsfolk like livestock.

A confusion of senses
obtrudes tall pretenses
Her movements project
like a film through their lenses.

But she wears these moments
not for anyone else.
Its a pinch from her soul
to wake her from herself.

So she smiles as it slips
and skips into the light.
Until the next time
we see the girl
who paints the night.