My eyes go to the painting.
Something has lit itself up
and inside it the figures dance.
They look at me intently and get bigger.
My body weighs less.
I feel I am rising.
Warhol's pistols
without ammunition.
The situation in my brain clouds over.
Surrounded by glances
something blurs the lines,
and I accept its inside colors
and my figure suffers transformation.
And those white eyes,
I bring myself back to their side.
They make me feel this way.
They are after you...
they are after you.