In the end I combined three prompts:
A love letter, a riddle and a secret pleasure.
At a leisure walking pace it took an hour
to reach the gallery that was my destination.
You see far more around you when walking.
And you remember directions better in a song.
Enter the gallery. Turn right at the desk.
Continue until you pass bearded John Brown.
Those crazy eyes. Pass the bronze bust of Booker
T Washington. A gigantic portrait of an aged
Walt Whitman faces Ira Aldridge in his prime.
Her early self-portrait was a blend of Picasso
and Dostoevsky. Her fairy godmother – Marilyn Monroe.
A flame that burns too brightly consumes all
the oxygen in the space. What’s left is nitrogen
and CO2 to breathe. And near the end our wings
of molded wax – melt – as we soar into the Sun.