With a paintbrush in hand
I create heartfelt signs.
They litter the sky
like constellations at night;
directing you towards
no truer a sight.
But the blind must be
guiding your ship,
for you go about in circles
like a helicopter propeller in flight.

I wrote with dynamite
hoping my words would ignite
something deep inside your heart,
as if I were trying to mine the love
that resides behind those evanescent eyes.
I guess the wick was left outside
while clouds committed suicide.
Maybe I should just take their lead
and leave well enough alone;
forgetting all the attempts I made
at turning rain into snow.