Dry Masterpiece

Here it is: you can sing it like a chorus, if you wish. Even paintings dream of dripping blues, greens, and yellows. They dream of their creator, a talented but crazy fellow. Every poem can be sung. Every thought can be wrung, twisted and sculpted, ideas are meant to be reused (often, even abused.) To the night’s shadows and dreams’ desires, I go like thunder across the dark. You’re a dry masterpiece who can’t afford the rain. Or the sight of darkness, nor pain. Talk about unattainable miseries, Weep over love which wilts, The season of autumn dies to winter, Cold and wet, I lean in an interesting tilt to warm your eyes.