“A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds.” -Percy Bysshe Shelley
Friday, June 16, 2017
I was framed
Words wouldn't come
so I went with paint,
but the body was too thick
and the primaries screamed
even when kept apart
Those threads I cannot read
through
the prepositions and problems
drama and canvas scenes
in media res, centripetal
room at the edges
so bubbles don't pop
as tempting as black is
Purple pretends perception
like lines of sight
the same lines that bind
up brains and I's
omnisciently we see,
underneath it was red,
with light
become plane as day,
in a literal sense.
Arttwork By Michael Sevier (illustrator) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
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