You,
there,
with your stripes so delicately traced.
Me
here
with a mess of ink scattered randomly
with patterns of unknown angles
and eloquence of unseen form.

My abundance is your emptiness,
my decisions are your mysteries,
but, as naked before me you stand,
little seems unsolved.
Your blankness stares me down
intimidating my activity,
preventing me from breaching the silence,
and so I stare back at you, thinking.

My thoughts will adorn your garment
and knowing this is menacing..
it roars back against my marks
and keeps your pinstripes perfect.

Oh yes, those stripes,
languishing in stupid blue,
amongst the white cascades
that aren’t quite white.
To me they dance
with shadows of brilliance
flowing against them.
They give way to great paths,
intricately traced,
intimately felt,
that take you and make you art.
But those are just shadows
my imagination cannot cast.

My eye is blank and blue.

But wait..
a siren shrieks from deep beneath
and steeps subconscious thoughts to breach
the border between ink and speech
and decorate your fair stripes.
My inspired eye sees these wild designs
that divide, and unite, and indeed multiply
into winding and time-binding styles inscribed
but how
in the hell
do I start?


****.

You still stare
blankly
boldly
as I still stall
fumbling
folding..
but slow to lose hold to my shadowy flashes
that fought against waterfalls
to reach peaks of genius
and fell short
but fell well above thoughts before.

So with pen of black,
I faintly refract
the light that has shown me the door.