Poetry

I Don’t Write Songs

With all the colors changing,
and sensations fading.

With Eyes locked
in passing.

The air is ripe.

With aspirations,
pinned to a sleeve.

A will is reborn.
Delicately anew.

With a canvas primed
for oils and plaster.

A readily inked brush.
A painful muse.

Proceed.

Laborious love
cut only for you.