Art is a shadow

play of life, both cannot be --


understood deeply.

I've got my rose-colored glasses on  
And skies in my eyes.  
I've got stumbling thoughts in my head  
And a few choice words (for you),  
Trapped in the back of my throat, (just for you).

I've been sitting at the piano,  
Staring out the window,  
Thinking
how strange it is... that;  
Well, blue is associated with sadness  
When the sky is so beautiful,  
Like you  
When you're laughing  
Because of  
Me.

We never really say "good morning", do we?  
It's only ever 🫂 (a blue hug)
We never really say "how do you feel, today?"  
It's only ever "I need coffee."

I'm trying to find the expressions,  
But the keys keep playing the wrong notes.  
It ain't right

Blue skies
Aren't empty
They hold
Clouds, resembling objects,
Always drifting, changing
Making me feel
I'm always free-falling
What if it falls apart mid-flight?  
Will we survive?

The sky has never been so blue
My vision has never been so blue
I don't think I was made for blue skies

I'm not an Obrina Olivewing butterfly.  
My blue isn't true;  
It's just the way I see light right now,  
A false perception
A state of mind

but I...  

I've got my rose-colored glasses on  
for you
just for you
My one and only
🫂

Blue

How is yet, our soul purpose?
Aged reciprocation, a queue of wrath
Since apt, is a war with no host...
Places of passion, set to a music to never add

Odd, the taste
Of vehemence's flower
Set to sweeter haste
Implied ordeals have a certain power...

Mercy, no more...
A mirror of lewd fantasy
Seeing me step forward
Has harbored, my indignity...

Salt, I know you
Quiet, when fingers of the sun
Arrange the day, for a wind to blow
An image saving not, from a seldom, so cunning...

Professed voices
With a moment, to look and see...
A curse so sweet, presence of a choice
That has a hand, for each blindness we be...

He lives in fear of the cobwebs of time
wrapping themselves around his eyeballs
stopping him from seeing what others see
those who avoid dark shadows and pitfalls

For the cracks and corners of most of life
remain a mystery regarding the nuance
of how everyone else seems to exist
in various tones absent for him

Clouds passing over

the sun give life to the floor --


it breathes up and down.

i found myself reading
the words of Bukowski
as he describes a series
of meaningless moments
aspects of a journey
seemingly trifling
prosaic and unremarkable
in the manner recounted

a bus stops at a cafe
in the hills
lightly touched by
a newly-falling snow
of food and coffee
he says both were good
the waitress rare
the cook effervescent
the dishwasher commodious

as the snow swirls
beyond the window
he describes the scene
as beautiful but curious
certain it will forever
be beautiful in that way
he wished to stay
yet returned to the bus
nonetheless
when the driver beckoned

the other passengers
spoke or read or
tried to sleep
and none had noticed
the beauty of that moment
that something could be
so poignant to one
while being mundane
to others
is worth remembering
i guess