Empty canvas longing for
smooth caress of brush,
as dusty film gathers on
Vacant images secluded
in time, as the thirst for
expression grows with each
I once dreamed of vibrant
skies, books flapping their
pages over subtle seas,
playfully looping one another,
as they race along surface.
Guided to perfection with
still hand, and gentle bristles.
I was a magician, maker of
miracles, bristled wand in
hand, creating life and love
in vivid tones of violets and hues.
Am I nothing more than a sponge,
panting and thirsting along
desert sands, sere air withering
my skin, almost like time dried
Ah yes, a sponge, dry and empty,
exceeding the boundaries that didn�t
exist, to frizzle beneath peering sun,
withering to subtle tones of yesterday.
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Copyright �2001 by Richard Charles. All rights reserved.