ponder why the iridescent eyes
possibly cannot derive
of such great sights,
soar into vast shuddering heights
claw away the leafs which scatter
blinding like red and orange kites
spotting the thunderstorm
which lightening refuse to strike
nestle under the skies gone restless
a little unsteady in the heart
in a place which speaks to me like art
with all the visions,
hues and textures, movement without numbers,
a timeless monologue
but of the cracking paint
fat over lean they always say
just remember never to layer
the thin over the strong
you would just end up cracking
now what is the painting
the red kite and thunderstorm
what does that really mean now