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An Empty Canvas
Folder:
The Rushing Stream of Desires
An empty canvas waits to be filled.
Its white surface glittering
like an empty paper in
a typewriter. Raindrops littering
the imagination. They splatter
the ambition of the artist.
I am that artist.
Chalice of wine drained
of salvation.
Echoes of other pictures
that can never be painted.
Sunsets never captured.
Forest scenes dreamed of,
but not completed.
And so in a circle
the
ending begins.
I am that ending.
Smoking passionless embraces
that
strain the fabric
of reality.
Why do the books never get read?
Why do I wander in libraries
when
I am not sure
what adventure I should
be reading?
Seeking to draw the
new age image
of a frosted shadow
that I see only
in the corner of
my eye.
And dry skin aches to
be scratched.
Inside and outside the
flapping water
ruins the
canvas of the
ashtray.
Put out the cigarette.
Smoke another
drop
of cancer
and
let the mind
make up its own
way to deal
with the
shattered canvas
of life.
