There is a early spring flower blooming in the late winter sun..
I think they call them indian paint brushes..
Its firey red pedals shined brighter than the late winter sun..
It was the only color we saw in the new green grasses..
Green grasses brought by a thunderstorm from a week ago..
There is a small hint of spring perfume in the late winter air..
We feel her pass through us every now and again..
We continue forward on our walk to no where..
We'll go as far as we want to..
We cross a bridge with a small stream running under it..
Although full of trash it still holds a majestic beauty under this now one star evening sky..
The stream is strong creating musical water notes and songs..
A cardinal bird follows alongside us from tree to tree..
His red feathers are the only thing that has surpassed the beauty of the lone beautiful indian paint brush we came across earlier..
The night is now kissing the day away..
Time to walk back..
We will let you know what we see..

I want someone who paints my heart
like an artists paints the sky,
with hidden tales of summer nights
and the soft silence of winter,
every detail intentional and beautiful,
the little imperfections that give it character,
the smudges from the moments of frustration,
the glow of the sun that burned hotter than any flame,
that's how my heart aches to be painted.

A crab
squat fair
why amour
thick but
slender will
toe himself
in close
but rather
than let
go of
ties with
enzymes in
his heart
can pouch
egg with
a pinch
of salt.

There are shades of me and shades of you
As there are shades of red and shades of blue
Some shades ugly, some shades true
But I'll let you paint on me shades of you
If you do too
Indeed, we'll be
The most beautiful shade of purple
The world will ever see.

Like the insect to the light, quite the opposite here.
In this duskless place, in this non shadow realm, they find the new shade beautiful.  
But why?
More and more of them were filling the room.  
Seeking out the darkest of dark.
The shadow of shadows.
The shade of shades.   I then realize that these little beautiful creatures are looking for the source.  They are looking for me.

I run about the room from corner to corner.  The little pattern shaped insect like creatures were getting closer and closer to me.  I did not want to touch such a beautiful being made of infinite light.  I don't know what my shadow touch would do to them. Would it **** them? Would it hurt them?  But then I find myself feeling as though they want to be touched. As if my darkness is their salvation.  The former light room now looked as if a bucket of black paint exploded inside of a white room.  There was shadow steps everywhere as well as shadow marks on the walls. It was not long after that The room was almost completly black with darkness.  The light insect like creatures looked like stars in space. I was the darkness they rolled on.   It soon got to the point where I was cornered.  The room was now filled with these beautiful creatures.  All of which knew I was in the corner of the room.  It was the only corner where light was left. As soon as that part of the room dimmed they all flew into me.  They swirled and spiraled around me.  It was amazing! It reminded me of a galaxy.  I opened my hand and one of them landed on it. There was then a beautiful shine and sound.  Then a voice uttered two words.  " Thank you."   The creature was gone.  Then I felt someone hold my hand!

Just a girl from the prairie
Alone I face my adversary
Fear not in my vocabulary

Never once can I raise my hackles
For fear of attracting the jackals

Living life out on the edge
Seeking strength, the depths of me I dredge
Always stand tall, this my solemn pledge

Tis by my wits alone I survive
Circumstances most could not contrive

My life hard but no complaint
Good and true of heart, but I'm no saint
Mascara and lipstick my war paint

Of my life I shall not be cheated
My struggle never completed
I will never be defeated

Love, such an abstract thing.
Spread across a canvas.
Made seen by the help of brush bristles.
A vivid depiction of clear bottles made a mess.
I hope your not afraid of painting with ***** hands.
The feel of paint staining clean hands.
Here.
No one is innocent.
Not even the canvas which is neither seen nor heard

Her brush slides
across the paper.
As she looks down
at the creation,
Her face filled with
Pain.
Sorrow.
Lonliness.
She is searching......
As the brush spreads
black paint...
She stares down,
Upon the artwork.
Unable,
to find.
What she is looking for.

stain her lips with your kisses,
but do not paint her face with your anger.
rage does not fit in romance,
too many letters have gone missing,
and too many souls gone silent.
let her skin be canvas untouched,
caressed out of love for the unknown,
stroked with a soft touch.
forget what callused the tips of your bristles -
there will always be another sunset to capture tomorrow,
and an artist is nothing without good supplies and good ideas.
but she is not a paintbrush,
a tool you get to control -
make her your muse instead of a tattered sketchbook page.
take her weeping from the background of a dark forest,
to the foreground of the sun rising on a soft-sanded new tomorrow -
take her into your arms,
mold her sweetly, gently into your heart,
and allow the clay to harden and heal any cracks still exposed.
a woman is a work of art on her own,
ready to be appreciated -
there is no need to change her beauty,
only a craving to be a part of it.