Pacing, as a hummingbird spins her wings

and tiny frame, not frantic, but gracefully

as Paavo Oso and his art,

staring

impassive to his muse,

what shall ruminating speak this time?

                                                            Seven A.M.

The canvas still clean.

Once upon a time…

he felt the lascivious rage within

his rags, threads reaching to the sky –

as the woman came near,

her words of an alluring prompt stated,

                                                            “Well now, blah, blah, blah,”

The same ol’ same ol’.

Paavo Oso, curiously sinful.

Though now dry and deadened,

memories continue to be etched

upon his heart of a mis-guided eros

from too much misuse and exploitation,

                                                            as a boy-teen,

                                                            women, cruel and ruthless,

the adversaries of enmity.

Though the muse waits for only the gifted.

His page of white, as

a canvas panel,

begins to fill with black notes

that hit their target, as Cupid rises to strike

another innocent heart.

All in all, its still the same, God rules

the human heart, awaiting only the sound

of a corrupt humanity’s single verbal,

“Yes! O Christ, I will follow you

                                                            to the grave, and back!”