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extasisPoems
Old eyes rise Sun slowly opens upon a room Old bones shift and creak and shiver into motion red-veined eyes flit about focus on this and that figure stubbornly drifts over here and over there amidst it all: a blinding surface white canvas, stretched until it can stretch no more glaring, screaming, pleading, suggesting more and more intense at every moment the room is the canvas ancient eyes lock themselves upon the intensity Ancient, dark, spindly hands push through the air the canvas is a searing vision the spindles pluck at the liquid colour carefully dipping into the pools collision of vision and now...passion dark, flowing hands, delicate, fingers drift over canvas a soft, dripping, spindle presses itself into the blinding intensity bright passions left in its wake there is no room only vision there is no ancient no age only passion passion permeates the vision grabs it and throws it about threads it through the medium the room is filled with passion the canvas fills the eyes intensity shaking those creaking and creeping joints spindles, whisk to and from the colour and the vision specks of passion, drops of vision speckle the room time clicks a light dims a canvas is no more a vision lives ancient, wise eyes drift away sun drifts it's way closed a figure creeps it's way to a small, rugged mat old, ancient, red-veined, dark, knowing, wise eyes set tomorrow is another canvas
0
Jan 3, 2010
Jan 3, 2010 at 12:12 AM UTC
Old Paint
Old eyes rise Sun slowly opens upon a room Old bones shift and creak and shiver into motion red-veined eyes flit about focus on this and that figure stubbornly drifts over here and over there amidst it all: a blinding surface white canvas, stretched until it can stretch no more glaring, screaming, pleading, suggesting more and more intense at every moment the room is the canvas ancient eyes lock themselves upon the intensity Ancient, dark, spindly hands push through the air the canvas is a searing vision the spindles pluck at the liquid colour carefully dipping into the pools collision of vision and now...passion dark, flowing hands, delicate, fingers drift over canvas a soft, dripping, spindle presses itself into the blinding intensity bright passions left in its wake there is no room only vision there is no ancient no age only passion passion permeates the vision grabs it and throws it about threads it through the medium the room is filled with passion the canvas fills the eyes intensity shaking those creaking and creeping joints spindles, whisk to and from the colour and the vision specks of passion, drops of vision speckle the room time clicks a light dims a canvas is no more a vision lives ancient, wise eyes drift away sun drifts it's way closed a figure creeps it's way to a small, rugged mat old, ancient, red-veined, dark, knowing, wise eyes set tomorrow is another canvas
extasis
Written by
extasis
Jan 3, 2010
Jan 3, 2010 at 12:12 AM UTC
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