if you feel not in control-

you are the paintbrush and
the world is the canvas in
which you paint.
with words, with actions
with thoughts, with everything.
if I am the paintbrush,
then who or what is the artist
painting ?
is it me ?
is it you ?
is it us ?
could it be everyone ?
do I allow you to use me ?
to write what it is
the audience so pleases ?
and are we all paintbrushes ?
and, if so, is each to a collection
of which is the art ?

where is the source of your ink ?
for a pen is like a brush.
and what pictures are drawn from it ?

and how do you love ?
is it so openly a suggestion
you breath it out like air ?
you breath it in like perfume ?

well, the woods are starting to burn again,
and I can not deny that it smells fantastic.

I feel she's letting go,
I'm still a part of her drift.
she's been watching and
hoping for me-
another angel of my guard;
she will find me in someone
else lovely,
and he will
be her
reminder.

hold me in your arms-
as tender if we were
to leave tomorrow evening.
for i want to know the future,
but we always die so
suddenly.
please understand,
you deserve it just as
well.
find me;
where I am
within any other.

i'll remember the shape of
your face as if
it the palm of my hand

cups of water
over the surface
of your plentiful
pool

every time ill kiss you
ill heal a little more of our
pride until we are there
in where
we shall lay like babes
of the green hills after
sun dance

i'll blow a light wind
just around
and between
and through
your house of cards

wouldn't want them tumbling
now,
would we ?