Visiting

I flick the image back again;
I've seen his face before,
blurred by paint and marker ink,
his hands pressed to the floor.

The door is there, his eyes are red;
its tears are hues of blue.
A scream of hinges, grab of brush
then quickly throw me through.

My vision blurs as biles rise;
the walls are made of pain.
Too cramp, too tight, no point to move;
their stares are all the same.

This house a home? What Dreams May Come
shows oozing in the cracks.
A canvas place, a canvas face,
gives forth the door but lacks

a solid form. A beating storm
that doubts a human soul unborn
to flesh and blood but painted flood
of one man's mind, would make the mud

through which I trudge,
though now I see:
The pain is real;
his house is me.