THE WRITER IN GREY

by

T for Travelling Timothy

He doesn't like it when I yawn

He doesn't like it when my eyes are open

He likes it when I lie there

While he paints or sketches me

with my grey eyes closed

my clothes on the floor

He likes the idea of me

Though he doesn't like me

He doesn't like my words

but he likes what I write

He reads the words with a smile

But looks at me with sorrow

I lie on his couchand he draws me in grey

naked and alive

with my mind on other things

He doesn't like it when I laugh

He doesn't like it when I move

He likes it when I think

about poetry and Rimbaud

when I lie there silent, alone and naked

his thumb is wide and vast

He has truth on his side and art in his actions

some think he is controlling

with me being the controlled

But it's never for very long

and he gives me the space

for thinking and writing the words

that he likes so much

and I still sit watching him watching me

and he finishes another portrait

of his pet, the writer, in grey.

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