No mater how many times I go threw the same things I never learn.
Maybe I'm addicted to the faces of my loved ones being disappointed.
Or the criticism always being the same.
I must fear doing the right thing in return that people will expect it.
_______________________________________________________
The flowers lay still on canvas.
He had a vision.
A masterpiece dream.
Only few express with such clarity.
She dressed the sadness with a lilac dress and yellow sweater.
The animals passing on the corner could smell her depression.
At a table in a diner sat a women smoking a cigarette.
Across from an old grandfathers clock.
She recalled something like that in a dream she had a week ago.
As the door opened and a man with a masked face sat down beside her.
His dream of an aging beauty resting against a telephone pole outside.
All moments away from a plane crash. Years away from death,
and all living through visions.
I see you in each of these.
And the flowers on the canvas are displayed at a lovely $6.45 entrance fee.
Remembered because of the passion in his eyes.
No comments:
Post a Comment