Garden of Triangles

when asked to draw a picture
the crazy lady wavers,
her crayon hovering
waxen finger in the air
her wide eyes stare
vacantly
at nothing on the page
the brown colour
painstakingly
chosen
staining fingers
clenched
white
with thoughts unknown

i sit across from her, unspeaking
waiting
silently watching
her pale face
vague
brows furrowed
with thoughts
of something other than
here

then wax glides on paper
dirty lines
streaking
virgin white
what thoughts
chose brown
over lush grass green
lipstick red
sunset crimson or marigolds
brown
like mud
like dirt
brown
human excrement

her picture almost done
i sit across from her, unspeaking
silently watching
her pale face
etched in concentration
the finishing touches
carefully drawn

the crayon drops
from nervous fingers
the only sound
in silence
excrement on the table
"am i crazy?" she whispers
her vacant eyes
stare
in my direction

drawn on paper
a house
with flowers shaped like triangles
everywhere
brown flowers
ugly, triangle flowers
"of course not," with a smile
that doesn't quite reach my eyes
my false heart laden
with pity
with fear

"this is my garden," she says
silently begging
for acceptance she'll never have
and i wonder at her garden
the one she'll never have
"would you like a garden?" I ask
would she like a garden?
just like this one?
brown? ugly?
triangular?

"beautiful things aren't always pretty," she says
with glazed and vacant eyes
"and my garden's like no other,
unique
in shape
and colour
and beauty

just like me"

and i look into the mirrors
of her vacant, clueless eyes
and wonder
if she knows me
such is her perception
of my thoughts
and as i search the mirrors
that seem to gaze into my soul
I wonder
if she is my own reflection
and
maybe
the
crazy
one
is
i