Why must my travels be so stale.
No love to quote, no tales to tell,
I'm on troubled waters, no beacon to see.
At home I'm always alone.
Why O' why?
No satiation in my soul,
I'm idle and dark like a noir stained bowl.
Pale face, lonely state,
O' blind man I be.
Imagine no walking cane to take,
and pierced with a cold blackened stake.
Alone, no life do I see.
Why am I on an a empty isle?
No paddle or ship to sail,
and my inner self is so blatantly pale.
Fore my painting is alone.
A horsehair brush I must take,
to paint me a new mirage,
without loneliness in my forage place.
Being Painted Alone says a thousand words.
Your voice is tossed on the breeze.
I'm flying kites that have no anchor string,
my conversation forever lost with no words to bring.
Copyright © Richard McClellan