so empty alone
my need

is to fill it with
anything

give it a texture like Van Gogh
painted

canvases with his ear

or paint a melody
a visual

song of Hey Jude

and someway in a trying
image

or a straining high
toned  

metaphor
talk to angels

which I do
between the lines

and forgive
my inability

to artistically capture
their immortal

words
but my

periods if
you examine

closely are
tears and my

pauses the blank
paper

of my soul
my heart the

pen writing
my foot an iamb

or a pallette knife
or violin.