11-20-2013, 02:27 PM
Suppose I said the colors do not blend
together like they did with you around,
the blues don't match the breakers in Hobe Sound,
the ocean's unrealistic. Would you then
return to guide my hand, help paint the sand?
My fingers shake and bristles scrape the ground
beyond the palms, the fields, the church, the town.
I cut a jagged scar into the land.
You could paint the music in the pines,
and birdsong in the skies. Suppose I said
it is impossible to shade these lines!
They dry too fast, and chip away. Instead,
like etched calligraphy, our shapes entwine
while I engrave the stone above your head.
Original thread with workshopping here
together like they did with you around,
the blues don't match the breakers in Hobe Sound,
the ocean's unrealistic. Would you then
return to guide my hand, help paint the sand?
My fingers shake and bristles scrape the ground
beyond the palms, the fields, the church, the town.
I cut a jagged scar into the land.
You could paint the music in the pines,
and birdsong in the skies. Suppose I said
it is impossible to shade these lines!
They dry too fast, and chip away. Instead,
like etched calligraphy, our shapes entwine
while I engrave the stone above your head.
Original thread with workshopping here