11-17-2013, 04:27 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.
4.
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 hold my hand, to 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
I wonder at how yours entwine in mine,
while I engrave the stone above your head.
Third edit
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 hold my hand, to 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
I wonder which are yours entwined in mine,
while I engrave the stone above your head.
Second edit:
Suppose I said the colors do not blend
together like they did with you around --
there's too much grey, the way it boils down,
this ocean's unrealistic -- would you then
return, and guide these hands that 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 shape these lines!
They dry too fast, and chip away. Instead,
I wonder which are yours, entwined in mine,
while I engrave the stone above your head.
Edit per milo
Suppose I said the colors do not blend
together like they did with you around --
there's too much grey, the way it boils down,
this ocean's unrealistic -- would you then
return, and guide these hands that 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
to you, this is impossible! The lines
made by the brush just chip away. Instead,
I wonder which are yours, and what are mine,
while I engrave the stone above your head.
Original Post:
Suppose I said the colors do not blend
together like they did with you around --
there's too much grey, the way it boils down,
this ocean's unrealistic -- would you then
return, to teach me how to paint the sand?
My fingers shook and bristles scraped the ground
beyond the palms, the fields, the church, the town.
I cut a jagged scar into the land.
You who could paint the music in the pines,
and birdsong in the skies, suppose I said
to you, this is impossible! The lines
left by the brush just chip away. Instead,
I wondered which were yours, and which were mine,
while I engraved the stone above your head.
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.
4.
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 hold my hand, to 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
I wonder at how yours entwine in mine,
while I engrave the stone above your head.
Third edit
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 hold my hand, to 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
I wonder which are yours entwined in mine,
while I engrave the stone above your head.
Second edit:
Suppose I said the colors do not blend
together like they did with you around --
there's too much grey, the way it boils down,
this ocean's unrealistic -- would you then
return, and guide these hands that 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 shape these lines!
They dry too fast, and chip away. Instead,
I wonder which are yours, entwined in mine,
while I engrave the stone above your head.
Edit per milo
Suppose I said the colors do not blend
together like they did with you around --
there's too much grey, the way it boils down,
this ocean's unrealistic -- would you then
return, and guide these hands that 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
to you, this is impossible! The lines
made by the brush just chip away. Instead,
I wonder which are yours, and what are mine,
while I engrave the stone above your head.
Original Post:
Suppose I said the colors do not blend
together like they did with you around --
there's too much grey, the way it boils down,
this ocean's unrealistic -- would you then
return, to teach me how to paint the sand?
My fingers shook and bristles scraped the ground
beyond the palms, the fields, the church, the town.
I cut a jagged scar into the land.
You who could paint the music in the pines,
and birdsong in the skies, suppose I said
to you, this is impossible! The lines
left by the brush just chip away. Instead,
I wondered which were yours, and which were mine,
while I engraved the stone above your head.