When the air is calm and warm the white man would tell us stories.
We would lay down and listen.
The tall green fingers holding us gently.
The stories always change.
He told us of his adventures.
He lets out a sigh a the story changes.
Ever changing.
There is a rhythm to the story, making it a song.
The beat comes from the blue reflection.
She moves willingly, gracefully.
The light begins to fade.
Soon our story must come to an end.
The blue reflection beckons us back.
We must go.
The white man slowly turns pink as the light begins to fade, soon he will be grey.
We sit up, out of the fingers.
Looking back we see the prints they hold, tomorrow we will return on the blue reflection, just as the white man always returns from his black slumber.
I will always remember the days when we go back.
Back in the blue reflection to the fimiliar green fingers.
The white man will always be there, never growing old, never growing tired.
He will tell his stories around the world for all to embrace.
But are they not all the same?

Music hits the pavement, shattering the silence
Making clean what has been poisoned by man
Pounding a precious beat that makes us dance
Only those that truly listen, hear it
I sit with huge ears and a guarded heart
I just wanted to feel the dance in me
To feel the rhythm play throughout my bones
And watch the notes splash to form a light song
This song, will soon end passing too quickly
The music itself won’t come to a stop
It will slow, causing our bodies to freeze
If it did not stop, we would surely drown
The music becames soft for a moment
Changing from the drums we feel inside us
To a piano that tickles our skin
My hair stands on end as the plinking stops
A sudden rush of sound hits, like trumpets
Starting to play a new beat to finish
The trumpets die out as the violins trill
Symbols crash following a tremendous flash
Leading us to the end of this small phrase.

The paint danced across the canvas

With hues as bright as the shinning sun

The colors burn, but are cool to the touch

They run and jump telling a long story

Small details melting together as one

They wanted to say something without words

To touch someone without them listening

Words are complicated, with rough edging

Paint speaks every language without a sound

Looking at a blank canvas, a blank world

Is that not what has us dreaming of more?

The dry layers, crash through a closed mind

Maybe not crashing, but testing the seal

The question is, will they let it break through?

Emotions show through the artist strokes

Although not intentional, we see them

The paint drags, thickening on the canvas

Strokes appear deeper in the cool paint

Expressing how they felt without a voice