Black eyes of the deep south
simmer through cigarette smoke,
windows on the tortuous corridors
where the minotaur lurks.
There can be no control:
He is the crucible of all possibility;
the raging bull and the wild horse.
And the bearer of light.
His mesmeric stare fixes
on the stigmata of raised hands.
Goya-like, he senses life’s transitory
spell, this bridge of tragedy,
the lifeblood of creativity.
He paints in a trance, in full
knowledge that there is no
thread for Theseus to find.
copyright Francis Barker 2019