I wanted to paint my soul
So I dunked both my arms into blue and green
And threw them onto the canvas
As the liquid splattered, light gathered
Out of the sheet and danced the room,
Only giving me its sight then zoomed
Back into the place it had come.
Before it dried, I spread my hand across,
Letting the bright colors smear and run.

I drew pencil lines around the fine nothingness
But they insisted to create, instead, a bridge
From one side to the other, there I laid,
Swearing I could feel wind, in the light,
The middle of the bridge swayed
Over the sea of blue and meeting in green
Magically moving at that in between.

Cutting my hand, not too deep,
I let myself drip and the liquid creeped
Into the work that was myself,
Disappearing among the colors I felt.
This was me, a soul, puncturing the middle,
Making myself whole.

Here sits a poet,
A constellation  of thoughts,
A colourful sunset of rhythms,
Meteors of rhymes.
With pen in hand, by lamplight,
Only a poet knows
to create order from chaos,
His every word on paper flows,
Spinning dreams, emotions and wishes,
Whence the threads of figure of speech weaves,
A never-ending  tapestry of  poems.
Choreographing each stanza to be awesome,
Dancing over the meter,
Painting each picture to better,
The character,merit and existence,
Of what each poem means.
7/4/2019

Stitched from pieces of Truth
Making a tapestry of a Lie
The signature handiwork
Of the Father of Lies

To which the wicked proudly cling
As vindication and justification
To beat the Truth
To submit to the Lie

She never minded the scars I carved.
She'd beg me for more, and as her wrists were tied in knots.
I'd make sure another night was never forgot.
Sure, she'd struggle, much as any of us must.
But she was lurching toward me wild and bewildered such.

She would calm as I tended wound and her panting
below became a parting of bloom. Springtime crept
in like a slow, low light on a horizon only meant
to be seen by us two.

Her struggle turned to sound and her mouth stuffed still.
Her lids heavy hiding stained glass eye windowed sill.
Her knees buckled with belt tied firm to keep her tight.
Her smile crept wide as tongue wetted what kept words inside.

Her drool ran and stained our sheets,
her eyes filled with tears which ran down cheeks.
Pleasing pleadings strung out by Morse code taps of her feet.
She was more than a canvas,
she became my tapestry.