Hours.
Finally –
Fearfully –
Extracted, I laid them open
While the stalking butcher froze.
The spotlight clicked.
The paintings I had made –
In a grey box –
On a grey screen –
With a grey stroke –
*
The surrendered winked,
Whispered;
“No one is going to look.”
Pleadings in a vacuum want for air.
Sometimes fear goes unrewarded.