Wednesday, December 12, 2007

The Painter

She paints a red horizon,
on my wrist and says, "Do not worry
the yolked sun will softly shine again."

And my eyes full-moon,
over the blue-sheet-lake,
where swans shine out to stars.

She paints a thorn in my crown,
as the sunset showers, setting in skin,
purging all my sins.

I worry.

Worry why the painting Picasso,
burdens me, twists and contorts
the flesh of face, the pigment of my pride,
While all the while I shine -
a white, perfect primrose in the sky.

1 comment:

thisisme said...

You know, you should post more things... I know you've been busy and all but yeah