Folded umbrellas are lining the corridor.
I envision a painting - “The goat-milking matador”.
Holding on to an olive branch by a broken guitar string,
it evolves as I slide one more thought on my key ring.

I can feel him sweat fear through the pores of the canvas.
I’d look into his eyes, but alas, he is faceless.
Even church bells, suspended in mid-autumn air,
changed their tune and now tolling the name of his prayer.

Guilty skies turn to shades of a ripe pomegranate,
bruised by violent sunsets, they arouse my palate.
Mountains rise up as guardians – dark, loyal pillars.
I looked up and saw clouds morph into caterpillars.

Now I’m walking on soft clocks and Faberge egg shells –
timing my steps with the tolls of those church bells.
And as all of his fears are promptly negated,
I’ll unfold one umbrella to protect what was painted.