She is a rainbow of colours inside a black and white TV. She is dancing in the streets of Paris with gaiety. She is eloquence unnecessary, for she is perfect for me. She is grace beyond call; She is sympathy to misery.
She is what you would never expect her to be. She is here; she is with me. She is the One who would make Cleopatra suffer from envy. She is beauty, she is tragedy, she is my remedy. She is all things to me.
She is lost in a wish that may never be. She is hoped for more than you could ever imagine. She is an artist, she is relevant and she is necessary. She is beauty personified…
Chalk sliding down the blackboard, a painful screech That screams at you to cover your ears To shield your tympanic membrane from the date Brutus got Caesar killed Et tu mi fili Brute?
The prof looks up to survey the landscape: The usual gaping sheep and sleeping (g)apes Shakes his head, then lifts the chalk to trace -Insert white chalk on the black board screech- Et tu mi fili Brute?
Meanwhile, white flowers fall from a tree Somewhere near, you lock eyes with a bee Then turn back to the history T In time to see the chalk cease to be. Et tu mi fili Brute?
Wiped eternally, you missed the date How could you miss such a vital piece Of world history. You never dared Imagine you’ll see four times still: Et tu mi fili Brute?
Fast forward to present here I am, And though I know the date and deed, I failed to see the greatest deeds Gave it a name and made it wear black Et tu mi fili Brute,
Do you know what you really missed? It would never fit a couplet.
I found chalk on the holding of sky shimmers, then I composed on the blank spaces that where echoes of what was drawn in memories of yesterdays dreams.
Barren slate needed the imagination, woven between fingers streaming across an arborealis of creativity. I am the drawer of dreams that were colourless and now fill a void.
I outlined the slumbering's of what were just blank smudges. Now revitalized, I'm within this moment, a collage of colourful wishes that I created before I look smiling, tomorrows imaginings drawn again.
Right in the middle of the busiest area of the Poconos, the group of condos sit in a large circle. The sky is dark, for it has been hidden from all possible sunlight by the many awnings and porches that join the different housing units. On one side of the condos the neon lights from the bar next door shine through the children’s windows, but the more occupied side the parking lot is lined with fast food restaurants- clumped together and riotous with large families that frequent them, juggling their small children and many diaper bags; and noisy cars speeding past with loud engines, pungent, murky exhaust spewing out of the back and police sirens constantly blaring down the street. In the parking lot encircled by the condos the tenant kids run around full of light yet somehow full of darkness at the same time. The older kids come out of the small houses to sit on the sidewalk in the evening, and the cracked sidewalks are covered with the faded chalk drawings left there by the youngsters earlier in the day, and with the sheets of crumbled up paper containing poetry no one would ever read, and with the old needles and discarded blunts of their parents who had left them there over the course of the day.
There is one unit in particular, a unit with a broken door from the many men who had tried to force their way in, a unit with holes in every wall that were put there by flying fists and thrown objects that had missed their true target- the oldest daughter. In front of the many holes in the their smiles are fake and their hugs are forced.