The Mad Artist

Before my hand turned that door knob,
Picasso could not have painted
a more beautiful expressionist
painting of my life.

God, was it only a moment ago
that I walked on freshly painted walls
of gay colors leaving footprints
of petals and song birds
while children played happily in playgrounds?

Were those lovers walking hand in hand
smiling longingly at each other
mere mannequins posed for display?

What about those heart shaped
names carved into trees,
were they just copyrighted endorsements?

And the sun which shone so brightly
filling the world with enchanting
hues of yellow as it threw kisses
of cool shadows upon the ground
was that a convincing stage prop?

Were those flowers seeding the breeze
with a sweet fragrance artificial,
the wind but a fan set on low
sprayed with cheap cologne?

For since I turned that doorknob
to find that scrap of paper
lying just beyond the doorway my world,
like a color by number painting kit
with broken brush and missing paints
is now incomplete and useless.

My once gaily colored life forever
changed by three red lipstick
scrawled letters B.Y.E.

Three smeared letters and now
the heavens are splattered by a
clumsy artist standing on an wobbly
scaffold applying uneven brush strokes
while on a drinking binge,
bright colors upon palette
long since pawned for another bottle.

I await trapped, in an unpainted corner
the final thrust of a gray encrusted brush
by an insane painter.

Finish me.