My eyes watch
as the sky
is painted with colors of
soft blues & white fluffs
to
vivid pinks & dazzling oranges.

Soon to be
pitch blacks & deep violets
with tiny bright lights
speckled on with flicks of His brush.

Soon to be tomorrow,
strokes of
happy yellows & stunning golds.

we could be your paint box,
     whistling -
               down -
the faded margin of,
my lined paper.

from puffs of cerulean blue,
to a teaspoon of burnt umber,
half-stirred with a wooden spoon,
we could paint a supernova

                           ...go ahead passing souls
glance and say:
'What clashing tones!
What a mess they are bound to make.'

but listen my little russet-eyes:
for the grass will never be,
greener on the other side,
when we are every hue of green;
when we are all the colours.

A wash of blue
            
             Cool, calm.

Brush strokes on canvas

              Subtle, sweet.

Ocean eyes

               Pure, pretty.

Unfiltered sky

                Lucid, lush.

My kind of blue.

Tightly stretched across the frame I am cut from unbleached cloth,
The coarse craftmanship of my canvas awaits an artist's touch,
Outline the path to discovery and redemption on my surface,
Paint me with the colors of hope and prosperity as you guide my creation,
Let the pigments dance across my existence as I glisten and gleam,
I am a sight to behold,
A testament to the contributions of all before me,
Unified together through this masterpiece I now carry their legacy.

Paintings must have a poetry for each eye
An escape for each truthful try
To evade what more scapes the dye
That paints a mind blind
That scrapes for single thought that is kind

Poems must paint a painting
For eyes that are fainting
Sore with the harsh and painful reality
Of feeling while fleeing
From thoughts that rush too fast

Sights worthy of immortalisation
A play of wonder
A canvas of colors
Clouds of cotton
A woman’s elation
Caught in thread
She hides behind the storm
Indigo waves washing over
With them soar the starlings
Clouds with a life of their own
Soldiers of the sun behind the curtain
A symphony of luminance
In their final hoorah against the twilight
Soon the dome will be covered
By a blanket of black
Interrupted by startling beauty of her own
The migration of the great
The truly unattainable
So foreign and so far
A universal similarity
The unforgiving muse
The twisted reality
That beauty in a single moment
Is so easily erased
Should we not know how to paint

I never let anyone touch my heart.
But I let you  dig in hard.
Your hands grabbed to paint my heart.
My heart's your painting; it's every part.
Painting it with hope ,life and colour.
You painted it with love so subtle.
The Reds ,blacks and blues still speak.
They talk to me as they fade to leak .
Weren't we happy? But what happened then?
There were life's unpleasant winds all of a sudden.
The water needed by the water colours.
The wind's ****
Spill the water in the mug.
The water hated by my life's colours.
Spilling straight on the painting of yours.
Spoiling straight the glee of ours.
The dull water made the painting dull.
The dull wind's made my heart dull.
You had to throw away.
But to me my heart: your painting is a masterpiece
A thing only you could cease.
You never came back again
You left me hanging.
It's not you whom I blame.
It's the wind's blow.
I hate the wind i hate air
I'll never breath again.