"gallery" poems
*So many colors on nature’s palette
There are many moods and emotions
Picturesque gallery of many paintings
Forever framed in the travelers mind
Masterpieces cannot be recreated
If we only hold onto black and white
Immerse the soul in nature’s color
Many shades will color the spirit*
Aug 25, 2014
Aug 25, 2014 at 9:08 AM UTC
She is the chalk that draws the line
The sturdy rope, the ties that bind
The go-to when times are rough
The sweetness in the breath of love
She sets the rhythm of the day
She is the all in all she's made
And we, the gallery of her art
~The Family Matriarch~
She is the hope in all of us
The shinning light, the path of love
She is the strength from out the start
The very beat deep in the heart
And after all when all is said
Her children rise and call her blessed
Accepting life through joy and scars
~The Family Matriarch~
Apr 23, 2017
Apr 23, 2017 at 8:43 AM UTC
she was the maker, he was her muse
a creative girl with everything to lose
she colored her canvas with her bleeding heart
she loved him and watched her world fall apart
she got her heart broken but kept a blank face
knowing that there are some mistakes you can't erase
she gave up her art, a lover betrayed
her pure white mind turned a darker shade.
May 7, 2018
May 7, 2018 at 8:31 AM UTC
Do you need a new ****
Will yours just not do?
Well honey
I've got the store for you!
A gallery for butts
Come one, come all!
There's all kinds of butts
Both big and small
We've got butts that are big
Butts that are round
We've got butts that make
A tiny "toot" sound
Butts that are flat
And butts super small
Butts on short people
Butts for people who are tall
We've got butts that are firm
Hard in your grasp
Butts that are flabby
But nice ones at that
Butts so big
They cover the seat
And butts that are tiny
Cute and petite
We've got baby butts
With the softest of skin
Old ones that show
How old, where they've been
Butts that are fake
so plump and new
Butts that are real
Which are far in few
But what's this?
A **** we don't know?
Yes it's your ****
And just look at it glow!
It's so very unique
It's one-of-a-kind!
Yes that trunk back there
Is quite some behind!
You don't need a new ****
Why yours is so you!
Who would wear it
If it wasn't on you?
Show off that **** girl!
Because it's got class
You'll have everyone saying
"What an amazing * * *"
Dec 28, 2015
Dec 28, 2015 at 4:56 PM UTC
We fall,
and hard,
and in the shadows,
***** ourselves on snags,
that tear our clothes;
grazed and cut,
we stagger on -
Impressions, ideas, fancies!
Of these have we been disabused.
But is this spring,
come again?
Lovely,
yesterday,
in the bright sunlight,
to see you,
felt green hat in among the photo clouds,
apple suedes on the gallery's dank floor.
Melvyn,
and I,
merrily circling with you the light cloud images,
my nostrils full of pollen spikes.
The pictures:
wisps of trailing dreams churning in ‘scapes of infinite blue;
dark clouds,
in amongst them,
too.
Photographs in two time places
caught;
at once, all:
the other and t'other.
So excitement swells,
and everything besides us quells,
because the knowing of itself,
knows,
and dares beyond the frames;
to skirt knowingly the unsaid;
to want beyond the wounded past,
to pull things,
once again,
inside out.
In whimsy’s currents flow these thoughts,
these feelings,
these drives;
swirling in eddies,
so that as you sit,
on a summer’s day,
it moves,
a mirror to everything above.
The wavelets on the surface,
hammered into shape,
burn, bite and dazzle;
the sun’s flames leaping and dancing on ripples.
In the basement,
on the concrete,
your Y proneness shifts,
releasing knees on black-clad thighs;
two pendulums swinging,
brushing;
yawing metronomes in the cool,
coolness of my desultory thoughts.
Oh, what am I saying?
Feelings like reveries walk along these silver lips straying languorously.
These myths are too soon made,
carried one to the next,
one-on-one,
until contained no longer,
become new truths.
Jun 25, 2018
Jun 25, 2018 at 8:40 PM UTC
Paint my heart as empty
all blue and black and grey
Around it perforate a circle
from beginning back to start
Paint it very gently
then quickly pull away
Tearing it out
without ripping it apart
Someday they'll surely place it
in the Gallery of Fools
Inside the Wailing Walls
out past the Hall of Shame
And when the people face it
they'll cherish their own hearts
As if anatomy has
anything to do with pain
©Jason Cole
May 22, 2016
May 22, 2016 at 4:02 PM UTC
I don’t know why I’m so attracted to people who don’t want me around
Maybe part of me likes it
When he feasts on my heart like a tri-tip
I could run for miles and he wouldn’t chase me
Why did he waste me?
The circles I ran
All the *****
Hitting the fan
In the back of my mind I knew
This **** was to good to be true
Your like salt to my open wounds
But in the end your what makes me stronger
Just when I think I can’t take it that much longer
My heart keeps growing fonder
Or am I holding onto false hope
What if this ain’t love and it’s just the dope?
I’m strung out, a fiend for your love
Yearning for a burning
I can feel my stomach turning
You’re only your sweetest
After you’ve been your meanest
And when all is done and said
I’m lucky if I’m the one you take to bed
When the odds are in my favor
Your minds on the neighbor
But at least I’ve got that purple ********
guess whose on my mind?
The mental manipulator
Wet dream turned night terror
I got Charles Manson
When I wanted
Jack Herer
Ok maybe he’s not like Charlie
But he always made me sorry -
For wasting my time
Wanting you was a crime
Gave you all that
I had to give
Even wrote you this stupid rhyme.
You ask me to stay when my emotions begin to sway
You’ve noticed me noticing him, all of a sudden I’m so far away
What happened to the gallery of ******
All the times you said picking me up was a chore
And when you said we can’t get married
Cause of your credit score
All of a sudden my absence is threatening
Here comes the beckoning
All I’ve ever wanted suddenly looks so sickening
The could of, would of, should of’s
You will always be one of first loves
You say this time will be different
Now the other man seems indifferent
You never wanted me and now you do?
I wanted somebody else
But he left my lips blue
I don’t know why I’m so attracted to people who don’t want me around
When they finally do
My hearts buried in the ******* ground
Jul 10, 2018
Jul 10, 2018 at 3:11 PM UTC
A small skiff drifted in the harbor
guided by the eazy oars of a fisherman
standing in the hull to better view
the shimmering reflection
of the orange circle hovering overhead-
dancing with the gentle waves
in the morning mist.
Monet had to name it something
so he called it what it was:
"Impression, soleil levant."
A critic, wanting poison for his pen,
seized Monet's title to squeeze
a lethal dose into the radical veins
of the artist and his fellows of the gallery
(Renoir, Pissarro, Cezanne).
With scathing indignation
he dubbed the lot of them,
"Mere Impressionists."
The label endures (minus one word)
but how many recall or care to know
the righteous critic's name?
November, 2011
Jul 7, 2015
Jul 7, 2015 at 4:40 AM UTC
I still think you´re a masterpiece
The artwork I could admire forever
But as every other beautiful piece of art
You don’t belong to me
Oh honey
it hurts like hell
To be standing here craving you
In the door of the gallery
One last look
with tears in my eyes
And praying that who takes you home
Will appreciate the art of you
May 17, 2018
May 17, 2018 at 2:02 AM UTC
Hello Chicago
Flat carpet-town of corn meal
steel spears at the northern junction
of Cahokia and some unknown dream
No lillies grow here sir,
no tulip fields
though there are many Dutch
a little up north
Wisconsin, dontcha' know?
Family blood rains through the Chicago river
named of the blood of a slain tribal wonder
wanders
with the roaming buffalo
I sat at the top of Sears
(Willis)
Tower and peered into the foggy distance
and made out the shores of Michigan
through Indiana
the leftover rains of a continental freeze
churned the earth to butter and carved the arteries
and bowels
of today's earthly body
And when we drove in from O'Hare
in the late hours on incessant stoplight highways
counting down the streets
thinking maybe they'll go all the way to
Mississippi
just a long row of
Concrete
I saw the brick tower
of a decrepit Frito-lay plant
where they cooked their corn and potato
into succulent
can't eat just one
little snacks
for the whole of america
to enjoy in backyard barbecues
and convenience stores
and grocery outlets
All across the planet
Now with the trucks they come and go
up to and whizzing past Chicago
on to greener states with greater relief
with hills and lakes and winding streams
Different sections of the sculpture
Cities eroding into the pleasant coasts
quaking and breaking into tiny stones
a monumental David
cracked in the gallery
bird **** corroding the silicates
unpolished and immortal
words
Chicago!
oh you mighty city you
built from sod and sweat and dew
of new morning
I see your towers
you dreamer, you
But your towers are in Dubai,
and Shanghai
now
The world moved on
and forgot everything about
that magnificent mile
burned to make you earn
new toys and fancy things
from far beyond your winding river streams
But you didn't die
amazing, how much they tried
to rust you out
to bleed you dry
no,
Chicago,
you keep your ***** rivers flowing
all the way to the Mississippi
flanked by modern Roman concrete
all the way to the great green sea
out into the puddle that surronds
the Amerigo
Chicago
don't you give up that river dream
Jun 14, 2018
Jun 14, 2018 at 3:26 PM UTC
Hometown girls
are real with you.
If they don't like you,
they'll even make their *****
look ugly;
pulling them in all the way
to the tops of their thighs
through their buttholes
and you can smell the stench
in your brain.
But when they let you in,
when they let you sit on their ears,
it's like warp-drive.
They smoke virginia slims,
because that's what their mom's smoke,
and the bags under their eyes
are filled with nicotine,
but they're pretty bags,
purses of flesh
full with the kinetic beauty of coal.
Hometown girls are mostly black,
mostly white,
fifty-fity,
but nobody's checking
and when they whisper something nice in your ear
it's colored with a microbrew
or a wheel of Jim Beam.
Sometimes they'll take you by the wrist
into the bathrooms;
sometimes they'll take your drink
when you're not looking
and smile when you catch them
with it on their lips.
But that smile is good even,
on par with a supernova
in its ability to crush
and make beautiful.
But most of the time,
they stand around
outside Casbah
and Motorco
--if they're bougie
it'll be West End--
in the middle of the night
under the porch of the sky
looking out with amber
slitted eyes
like cats,
their legs twitching thoughtfully
as they wait for cabs
and pick at the night.
Hometown girls
are sexy/beautiful
because they'll watch your every move
from the gallery
out of empathy,
knowing they've been that ***** before,
knowing they've been that lonely,
knowing they just want to get drunk
and want to be around randoms
that aren't so random.
Mar 9, 2012
Mar 9, 2012 at 6:37 PM UTC
I peruse exhibits through the modern art museum
Nails hammered into wood
And trash strewn on the floor
I couldn't help thinking
What the **** is this ****
These can't be the champions of modern art
Moonlight and Arrival morphed my empathy and perspective
The theater is fine
Music is there for those inclined to discover it
So what about visual art?
I know a few things for certain
Nails hammered into wood never changed my perspective
Nor does seeing a garbage can in a museum affect my empathy
Trash is not art
Trash is trash
Waste meant to be thrown in the proper receptacles
So as not to obstruct our view of true beauty
I will concede that
Beauty can be found in everything
Depending on analyzation variation
But those that live an examined life
Constantly see silver linings and sour grapes
Experiencing comfort in tundras to the point of banality
Those visions are much more interesting
in their organic state anyway
As opposed to an interpersonal expression of the seemingly obvious
So what to hang in an art gallery?
I have my own opinions
At this point in time
No visuals elicit more emotions
Than dank memes
When I'm consuming art
Questions are innate in my consumption
Is this a vessel for empathy?
Is this examining the human condition?
Dank memes meet those criteria
Satirizing the powerful
Highlighting emotions and virtues in ourselves
That we're either proud or ashamed of
Memes share a common thread with poetry
In the sense that everybody can create memes
Or be a poet
I get the impression that
Universality of art diminishes it's importance
In the minds of patrons
There's an element of truth to that
But what makes art special is quality
And what makes art truly special is high quality
And that's what belongs in museums
Jun 14, 2017
Jun 14, 2017 at 11:23 PM UTC
(After Lorca)
Now in Vienna there are ten pretty women.
There's a shoulder where death comes to cry.
There's a lobby with nine hundred windows.
There's a tree where the doves go to die.
There's a piece that was torn from the morning,
and it hangs in the Gallery of Frost—
Ay, ay ay ay
Take this waltz, take this waltz,
take this waltz with the clamp on its jaws.
I want you, I want you, I want you
on a chair with a dead magazine.
In the cave at the tip of the lily,
in some hallway where love's never been.
On a bed where the moon has been sweating,
in a cry filled with footsteps and sand—
Ay, ay ay ay
Take this waltz, take this waltz,
take its broken waist in your hand.
This waltz, this waltz, this waltz, this waltz
with its very own breath
of brandy and death,
dragging its tail in the sea.
There's a concert hall in Vienna
where your mouth had a thousand reviews.
There's a bar where the boys have stopped talking,
they've been sentenced to death by the blues.
Ah, but who is it climbs to your picture
with a garland of freshly cut tears?
Ay, ay ay ay
Take this waltz, take this waltz,
take this waltz, it's been dying for years.
There's an attic where children are playing,
where I've got to lie down with you soon,
in a dream of Hungarian lanterns,
in the mist of some sweet afternoon.
And I'll see what you've chained to your sorrow,
all your sheep and your lilies of snow—
Ay, ay ay ay
Take this waltz, take this waltz
with its "I'll never forget you, you know!"
And I'll dance with you in Vienna,
I'll be wearing a river's disguise.
The hyacinth wild on my shoulder
my mouth on the dew of your thighs.
And I'll bury my soul in a scrapbook,
with the photographs there and the moss.
And I'll yield to the flood of your beauty,
my cheap violin and my cross.
And you'll carry me down on your dancing
to the pools that you lift on your wrist—
O my love, O my love
Take this waltz, take this waltz,
it's yours now. It's all that there is.
6.3k
Good morning body
I called you in for a meeting
because
you can’t sleep again
and I just wanted to tell you
you don’t already seem to know
and no one can read your writing
you already know what you’re wearing tomorrow and you’ll pay the gallery in the morning
and it's all fine
and you’re very much allowed to yawn sigh or take a
deep breath
I know January keeps trying to go on
and on and on and on
like you’re not already over it
a few weeks ahead of yourself
like we’re not all stuck in Deja-vu
despite the fact that it’s fun to type out
soothing repetition
like a hot tea lavender oil or the last smile on the page
like a consoling yoga chant
it’s time you heard this
where are the words you’re hiding?
when you sit down and say you can’t do this again
I will tell you I think this might be growing
it was you under the pile of clothes the whole time
holding the remote
murmuring prophetically in the corner
it was you you see
you already said
you’re everything you know
you’re everything you need
Good morning body
I called you in to talk to me
for us to meet each other
letters to yourself are the new shopping list
or at least
they’re calming to write when you can’t sleep.
Jan 6, 2024
Jan 6, 2024 at 12:17 PM UTC
Sometimes the flashbacks
Can be picture perfect like a gallery
Every once in a while
I struggle with what life's like actually
As the memories resonate
Depression eventually catches me
It always baffled me
and still rattles me
Why did my best friend
have to be a casualty
I'm setting my GPS
as I pull down the street
For Arlington Cemetery
in Washington D.C.
Whenever I feel the need
I just sit there with him
No reason to speak
I let the ground beneath me
relieve some of the grief
Then just before I leave
I about face and say
You'll always be with me
Semper Fi my brother
Rest in peace Marine
Jan 16, 2016
Jan 16, 2016 at 11:03 PM UTC
Words and letters are written on walls
Some as vandalization others as messages
Words and letters are written on walls
Words and sentences are written on billboards
Some serve as advertising others to arouse awareness
Words and sentences are written on billboards
Words and paragraphs are written on my brain
Some serve as inspiration others to support guidance
Words and paragraphs are written on my brain
Words are the weapons I use in a society that controls my image
Words are the only thing that can divide me from being ghetto or educated
My words are the only thing that I can vouch for like my *****
My words are the root of the intelligence that propels this sentence
Letters in my words stand close to each other eager to make a statement
If I do not show my words, my letters of cheerfulness begin to fade away
Sentences are the compound of the mind that begs to be understood
Sentences are made up of a tyranny chained down by a trendsetters mood
My sentences contain verbs, nouns, adjectives and subjects that explain a lost purpose
My sentences define the meaning of an ironical imagery that leads me to dream
Sentences paint a picture that any blind character can see
If I do not paint my sentences how will I ever show my brains art gallery
Picasso used the paint brush to express his moods and feelings on a canvas
Shakespeare and Allan Poe used ink to utter their thoughts on a sheet of paper
Somewhere in my mind the collision of words and paint occurred
Where I fused the essence of writing with the masterfulness of painting
My words and sentences have met a significant other called paint
Paint and words are my new best friend
Paint and brushes are splattered and used upon walls
Some are called vandalization while they represent artistic skills
Paint and brushes are splattered and used upon walls
Paint and words are written on subways
So the eyes of the young and old can see the traveling message
Paint and words are written on subways
Paint and words smack up at my face
So that the world sees who conveys this message
Paint and words smack up at my face
Paint gives visual to what words cannot picture
My Paint serves as a method of expressing the mind’s tears and smiles
My Paint becomes a tour guide through the loops of divine wonders
Paint is just a stepping stone to the magnificent path of beauty
A brush is just a brush depending on who holds it
A brush is like the keyboard I constantly battle with to unleash my mind
A brush can combine negativity and positivity and make peace
A brush unites celibate beliefs with those whom are perverse
Words and sentences along with paint and brushes help explain my motive
Jonathan Pizarro
Lost Cause © 2011
April 17th, 2011
Sep 28, 2011
Sep 28, 2011 at 12:42 AM UTC
I visited the wonderland after ages
I was welcomed in the same old way.
The lavenders performed a splendid show
Reminding me of the last May.
The mansion was as we left it,
holding all the memories we made.
Your clothes were laying on the floor near bed.
I still remember how I allowed you to invade.
The family photo was hanging in the gallery
showing off one of my greatest achievements.
Those trips to London, Paris and New York,
a new adventure on every weekend.
The empty rooms haunt me now
but I am holding it all with a thin strand.
(*If you ever want to return, darling,
Just come back to our Wonderland.*)
Oct 16, 2014
Oct 16, 2014 at 2:57 PM UTC
Has your soul ever been displayed,
Framed by thick wooden-glazed borders,
and set up in the gallery of another's life?
Can you say the painting of you
Beams with joy through heavy clouds,
Sliced by sharp shards of glass-like light?
If not, may you then brush-up yourself,
Quick blots of pink on sunken cheeks,
Lighten the shade under each eye?
Or will you draw the curtain,
Blind me to me, and you to you,
Pinch out the last flicker of fight?
Jul 17, 2025
Jul 17, 2025 at 2:29 PM UTC
White gauzy smoke is blown through the lily,
Floating on air,
Fondling leaves and dewdrops who're glittery,
A view so rare.
On a picture elegance is enjoyed,
A Polaroid,
Presented in a silver-gallery,
Who's gloomy ne'er.
With gauzy threads from a silky cocoon,
White as the moon,
Lily-hands craft blooming embroidery,
With flowers there.
Like gossamers this elegance's tender,
Lit and slender,
Shining at the afternoon silvery,
Which does not flare.
O Mâhî, this form is a web of rhymes,
Who slowly chimes,
With threads we're finally stitching poetry,
Crafted with care.
May 2, 2017
May 2, 2017 at 6:44 AM UTC
Normal has no home with me.
Rage is a wonderful mess.
Shake my hand...
Bend around my mind.
Bend all you can.
Sick is what I am.
Contagious is what I'm not, but you will flee all the same.
Satisfaction to my day.
Stay away so I don't have to try to explain.
Stay away...
PTSD, and a sprinkle of Rage...
Bipolar me will tarnish your day.
You will never understand my fears.
You will never understand the me that isn't me...
The desolate creation of Molestation, Physical Abuse, Verbal abuse, and ****
Paint me Not a Victim for you are mine!
I'm ice cold and brilliant in my revenge.
I am easy on the eyes...
I'm a wonderful disguise!
I'll fight with my word's, even though I can't sleep.
You can be the victim of you!
Karma and God will find you!
But first you will see me.
My other me...
Such things that I think...
What you have done to me is nothing compared to my friend Beelzebub!
My mind's damaged Razor Sharp.
The Blood my mind spills is Beautiful, and warm like Family.
I'm the creature that feeds off the stench of your decomposing corps.
In my mind all that's gory is miraculous art.
You are Glorious in your Death!
And it is ART!
Fantasic ART!
Unique in your final pose...
Unique is your Blood on my paint brush.
Victims, Vast!
My gallery is full.
Such Monster's you all are!
But as I write, and create...
I'm the monster Today.
For Survivor's of hate!
I'll create!
No victims of innocence will bleed today.
It's a new day!
I have spray paint filled with the blood of the ******* who stole comfort from your night.
Cry not tonight!
Your composing the nightmares this night!
Set your hurt free...
Let them Bleed.
It's time for art's & craft's.
Carry them to me!
Jul 14, 2017
Jul 14, 2017 at 4:54 PM UTC
Mahatma Gandhi
Young visitors in a gallery,
Stood before a portrait of Gandhiji,
Charmed by his toothless smile,
Eyes sparkling through glasses round
And an old watch dangling from his waist,
With his chest bare and a **** cloth
Covering his lean , frail frame.
While they wondered how the good old man
Could shake the mighty British empire
And fight without weapons of destruction,
They were thrilled to behold a vision rare -
The smiling Gandhi emerged from the frame,
Saying that his weapons were invisible,
Yet, they could vanquish the most powerful
Without hatred and shedding no blood!
His loving voice and childlike smile
Combined with an unbending will,
Wielding the power of truth and nonviolence
Could conquer his mighty ruthless foes
And turn them into everloving friends!.
Feeling amazed, the visitors stared
At the Mahatma moving back into the frame;
Begged him to remain and lead them again.
"My countrymen," he said "seem to have forgotten,
" The bloodshed and horror of partition.
"Terrorists and fanatics **** and burn
" And innocent victims feel miserable and forlorn.
"Twice a year, on my 'samaadhi', flowers are strewn,
" While helpless millions struggle and groan.
"In these days of endless greed and senseless crime, "
"Guided missiles and misguided men,
" My words seem to have no relevance,
"Yet, if they listen to their own conscience,
" Give up greed and serve with compassion,
"The India of my dreams will arrive soon."
Sad and surprised, the visitors stared:
Though the figure vanished, his words inspired
And they resolved to follow his noble ways
And strive for the welfare of all mankind.
********* M.G.Narasimha Murthy
Hyderabad, India. [email protected]
Nov 25, 2015
Nov 25, 2015 at 8:16 AM UTC
and I would give everything I have to see your eyes light up like streetlamps and you know that time in summer where the steady glow from daylight merges into night time and the breeze dances along the leaves of trees too tall like ballerinas; so gentle if you blink you’ll miss the sway of them? that’s what you remind me of.
you are a glow, an indian sunset and I long to be the sea your sun shine kisses and when your glow transcends into moonlight I long to be the stars who are accompanied by your effervescent light night after night and you know to me you will always be a god **** sunset when you should be rainfall: you pour down on everything I love and leave puddles; you cause unapologetic floods in the crevices of my collarbones and attach your saltwater to the follicles of my hair and you warp the words on the pages of love letters I never sent and when you fall down my cheeks my teardrops and your raindrops will merge and for a moment we will become one and that’s all I’ve ever wanted. to be one with you. to be a god **** indian sunset in your illuminous eyes.
I keep running through the hallways of my mind and your voice is bouncing off the walls and echoing straight through my chest and there’s a thudding that gets louder and louder, like bongo drums, every time and I’m pretty sure my heart is now a gallery of us, open for public consumption and they can walk along the hallways and appreciate the beauty of our profound love like you never could.
one day you will find someone who melts your heart into your veins until it feels like the oxygen around your body is trapped and screaming for you to try to breathe, try to breathe harder and you’ll scream for them and they’ll stop returning your calls and there’ll be no texts and everything you once had will sink – almost in slow motion, almost as intangible as the idea that I loved you harder than anyone ever could – a ship where you’re the only person aboard and you’ll be watching an indian sunset like you watched their fingertips trace the curvature of your hips for the last time and you’ll realise in that moment that they were your indian sunset and man, don’t you just wish for some rainfall?
Jan 25, 2016
Jan 25, 2016 at 9:31 PM UTC
Maybe one day we will cross paths at an art gallery
and
everything
will
be
ok
again
May 6, 2014
May 6, 2014 at 8:08 PM UTC
~
The Giraffe Cries
Dancing on a thread of silk - taut of pain,
balanced deep within the fear…
Swaying to the side in calculated energy,
breathing as the sweat begins to pour
Toeing the line with blinders on
only to face the evil waiting - miles above my last breath
Shambles become my life’s dreams,
as fifty or so exit the compact car below- all doors ajar
Pointing skyward with gloved fingers and flowered bonnets
they gasp - splashing red paint of severed smiles
and floating eyebrows, merely decorations placed by hand
and contractual obligations
The rings add up to three - yet left alone I find is me,
teetering of lost imagination and breath taking nuances,
blanketing the sawdust creations
of worries portrayed in a gallery of netted promises
It is calling now for my end - free falling with wings to spare,
a calliope whistles its crescendo beneath a tent
pitched and heaved in frustration,
riding the rail lines of someone else’s thoughts
Not worth the price of admission - I wave
as I exit this cotton candy dream world in search of the nightmares slowly unfolding
along platform bridges of age
and destined footpaths
The train departs…the giraffe cries
Apr 15, 2014
Apr 15, 2014 at 12:40 PM UTC