Looking at this painting backwards,
the poet begins
to see how not
to end, how the center holds
only recycled reflections of a soul. More
will be revealed, still
a nuisance theme, runs
rampant in reds and golds inside
closed lids. And then there’s that
damn song and the guy who sings it—how
it wrote him inside
out. Was it? It was
this torched. Turn it
over with eyes at rest
Meaning can’t be met
at the station. It floats over tracks
and erases bridges made derelict overnight.
I love this! I play with paints and poetry and you captured the difference in how it feels. Now if I could only carry a tune! Marvelous!!
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love this as i have dabbled in both…
dropping by from jingle’s…
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