Held up by its wind, a flag will ******.
The motion, so liquid,
so solemn and yet lucid.
Floating in its own breath,
meandering,
unleashed along nature’s footpath.
The wind ponders with instinctive movement through and around this clothed vessel.
There are no regards nor any purpose. 
The movement, the romance within this dance with nature is fearless.
The wind has its sweetest of palette – a flag.

A Palette of Sunrise

Bronze spears waltz with pure aubergine
amid cauliflower cumulus –
gold touch-paper.

Sugar sprinkled wash with
candy pink bubble-burst
stains church spire and oak.

Saturated in spongy tangerine
night-shapes meld into broken egg yolk
coffee spills through fields.

Foggy wool tufts
grasp mushy-pea hillocks,
sweat drops from tired shoots.

If I was a mender of souls
I would prescribe
five minutes, twice a day.

I don't live in
a black and white world,
but there are days in which
my pallette is ******* up.

Love and passion
are no longer red,
but hues of grey
fill my soul.

Blues are no longer
beautiful,
but are muted versions
of angry self-loathing.

Nature is not reflected
in pastels,
but my mirror is broken,
for no light exists
in the shadow it creates.

If I truly cared to believe
that the grass is greener,
I could learn to look past
all the melancholic colors.

take some oils and a pallette knife
take a canvas and paint your life
make it how it wants to be
so very happy and trouble free
use the colors as you go
paint it easy nice and slow
make the back ground stand out loud
make your picture make you proud
paint it how your life should be
then in a frame for you to see.

The Gentle Pads Of My Finger Tips Are Frigid,
The Skin Under The Lip Of My Shoe Is Raw And Worn,
From All The Cautious Steps I've Taken,
The Leafy Green Of My Tired Eyes Is Dulled,
From Hours Of The Presence Of Vision,
The Fraile Glass Windows Are Frosted Over,
Crystallized Molecules Whisper To The Half Moon,
My Heart In A REM State Of Mind,
From All Of It's Beatings,
And The Color Which I Portray Is Black,
Because It Is The Absortion Of The Artist's Pallette

His silence screams like a searching wind
a death-hungry spirit painted in
pallette-knived smears of
grey and fear and crimson
streaking across the night sky of his heart,
lightning-bolt ricochets striking, incinerating
the solitary oak tree of his soul,
scattering his acorns down the hill where they
are lost among the weeds,
shocked into infertility,
But he is a seascape pine,
weather-worn but razor-straight,
Gargantua in wood and steel
establishes his personal space
like a rabid porcupine,
And he is a tower,
hiding his soap bubble dream
while she brushes her hair
one hundred times
one thousand times
one million times
until the dream is
lifeless, breathless, armless
and tucked neatly in a refrigerated drawer,
As his silence screams like a searching wind.

Today Is A Quiet Pallette Of Blue Which, In Fact,
Sits Secluded From Every Yellow, Pink, And Red,
It Is Cold And Quiet--Idle As An Afternoon Rain,
Lethargic And Angry, Hard Yet So.. So Silent...

Today Is A Blue Day, It Is Bluer Than My Very Soul,
It Is A Blue Tuesday, Darker Than A Saturday Night,
The Sky Is As Gray As The Sea, But It Is Twinkling,
The Notes It Sings Turquoise As Tropic Waters

Today Is A Soft Baby Blue, Contorted By A Tough Navy,
A Harsh Golden Sunrise Has Turned To A Gray,
The Mush Colored Sky Is Tamer For The Blue Eye,
And The Blue Eye, Is A Window To A Blue Heart

It's acold misty morning
The large grey cobblestones creating valleys by themselves
The old black lampposts casting the imaginings of light
The buildings shuffle between dark grey and black as if they were a depressed Chameleon
A man walks along this pathway
His dark black Brioni suit covered by the enveloping arms of his coat
The buttons undone as the coat ***** dramatically in the wind that isn't there
The outfit is completed with a black fedora which he wears upon his head
He walks down the pathway and passes a small man
With ragged clothes and a baggy hat
He barely notices the painter as he Iis consumed with his Own demons
The painter holds a brush in his right hand
An old thing with paint and chips on the wooden handle
The bristles are long
Not imacculate
But well used
In his left hand he holds his pallette
It has every colour imaginable
But only a small splotch of it
The painter walks behind the man with the fedora
And he painted
He painted galaxies on the cobblestones and valleys separating them
He painted patterns into the sidewalk and stories into the bricks
His style a rough painterly style
Jagged geometric lines creating organic spirals and waves
A Van Gogh style
Painfully wild strokes
That seem to contain the souls of suffering and pain
His flat yellows contrast to his vivid reds
Powerful imagery created by nothing but contrast
Emotions toyed with by jagged currants and swirls
The painter painted
Trying to catch up to the man with the fedora
Painting eruptions of beauty from the lampposts
And birds and flowers floating upon the air
As the fedora man's heels lifted paint was laid down in insane yellow
Driven insane by trying to catch up to this man
Driven insane by trying to show the man beauty
The painter ran out of paint
A masterpiece a mile long
Seen and admired by all who walked behind
But the artist had failed
His face Contorted as his emotional suffering manifested physically
His heart broke again as he realized that this man with the fedora wouldn't stop
He would live his whole life
Without seeing beauty
The painter was put in a nice jacket and a white padded room to live the rest of hus days
Forced to live in his misey....
His  emotion....
His failure...

chlorophyll green,
verdent, colour me trees
freeze dry to
amber, yellow, cardinal red liquid gold, titian, xanthous, carmine, deepwine burgandy, magenta, saffron, orange, rubicant, henna, bronze and copper burnished, cracked terracotta
and then finally...
bittersweet crumpled brown
what a pallette of cold night air painting daubed on wooded canvas'
life portrayed in leaf-ed glory
all before our autumnal eyes

I wanted to paint,
A trail of red,
Down your chest
leaving nothing but,
The stain of my lips,
To lay in contrast,
To your fair skin.
You brought forth,
A pallette in my eyes,
Birthed within a new,
Sight of purples,
Left behind,
By the lost ramblings,
I drown in after ***.