poetry

Sonnet #3

The art that surrounds me is in your eyes

you can feel the brushstrokes from where you sit

I can mix the colors to create more lies

the people can swarm us with their wise and wit.

Walls are exploding with canvases

you never showed me how lovely you are

now I am aware of all your paint messes

and I aim to finger paint you from afar.

The selection of flowers and still life

is speaking once again to my sleeping soul

that will awake once your wandering wife

is finding her Truth at a Rabbit Hole.

I can analyze the colors you choose,

while you moan and cry about painting the blues.

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