.....The brush rushes the paint, the
grudge
is ripe. Cultivate it or let it rust.
The paint stale, the painter frail.
Caved canvas like sails of a sailor.
Clash of nimbuses pales the skin
as thunder waltzes ashore the ocean,
ballets on the sea like swans
entwined dancing with the wind.
You'll love the voice of melody when
harmony sings.
Deep bliss drowns sins for
peace to glimpse the surface
Poets — coherent,
honest with even pens
and odd ends. Warm hearts
with cold hands.
The bane engaged with pain,
as faith fades and
blank pages mar sanity.
Life springs anew
From the well of thoughts flowing
Through the pen.
Feb 14, 2015
Feb 14, 2015 at 11:34 AM UTC
.....The brush rushes the paint, the
grudge
is ripe. Cultivate it or let it rust.
The paint stale, the painter frail.
Caved canvas like sails of a sailor.
Clash of nimbuses pales the skin
as thunder waltzes ashore the ocean,
ballets on the sea like swans
entwined dancing with the wind.
You'll love the voice of melody when
harmony sings.
Deep bliss drowns sins for
peace to glimpse the surface
Poets — coherent,
honest with even pens
and odd ends. Warm hearts
with cold hands.
The bane engaged with pain,
as faith fades and
blank pages mar sanity.
Life springs anew
From the well of thoughts flowing
Through the pen.
