Another one for Nubia, painter of my Heart

I sat with the horn blowing my heartfelt manifesto of the heart

Alone, ostracizing the self for loving and not telling

How do I paint a picture that scripts my closeness to her aptly?

Pulpitised by my desires the scriptures knows of my sins

The trumpet is a puppet of her voice as she paints verbs

I duck and swerve, keep quiet so that silence conceals admiration

Can I talk to you painter of volatile gestures, understand my madness

Let me shun King James’ version, yours and mine could be neo-renaissance

The cymbals, flugals and the trombone blast the songs of Solomon anew

So we shall dance wherever we are welted to the ventricles that maketh Venus

In your tranquility princess I shall watch you make art no matter how hard,

I seek your heart; please let me find it where I think it is hiding, in secret.