There is a painting in my mind
with colors truer than a photograph would tell.
I've been warned not to look at it,
for within it's image is hidden every color of my fear.
If I look at it too closely or for too long,
if I study it at all,
the fear colors will flow together into a powerful reaching hand
that will engulf me,
as my eyes roll inward.
This painting teases and tempts me.
It dances behind me and before.
My neck strains as I avert my eyes.
Why can't I slash this painting?
Why can't I annihilate the beast?
My fearful blindness is my only weapon
against the painting's stubborn frame.