Memories

I Watch the painted scene flame crunch and burn how strange this strangulation of creeping edge
that first unwanted brush stroke swept into historical caverns 
loves flesh portrays a dishonest lusting light
securing a darkness in which the flames sweep 
misted that glaze that I slept through 
So the portrait is burnt. Gone where night holds its daily court
still I remember all those wrong and correct brush strokes leaking bones that trail this gothic written smile
but who or what follows
is it the shadow of me