His canvas face painted with his passions.
His color-saturated voice yearning to connect with the black and white of me.
A blissful creation reflecting the depth of his creator.
White-washed walls drawing me in
as they are filled with the meticulous strokes of
his thoughts.
A child of science enchanted by this masterpiece.

- By E. Zurales

A tide pool of a swirling heart,
A smoky room with vision lost.
The loud muses play their part,
Money bleeding, whatever the cost.

Love is not a slave that’s bought,
That age is standing silent still.
If I could command it to be caught,
I’d force it, bend him to my will.

I’d wrap my hands around his throat,
Careful not to put out love’s spark,
Threaten to throw him from my boat,
And into loveless waters dark.

“Make her love me!” is what I’d shout,
My tantrums would echo off the moon.
“End this dry and lonely drought,
Command my love, make her swoon.”

But I am not a man in power,
Nor am I one to beg to the stars.
I see the sunrise from this tower,
I see the weakening prison bars.