Mixing Paints

I paint a smile on my face, mid-poem the smile begins to crumble. Who are these dark angels that cast such shadows over my laughter. The brush falls from my hand, now I sketch in charcoal - teeth gritted. Wishing to portray the sun rising over a pastured valley, struggling for sunrise hues, plucking eyebrows with frustration. hands snatch up an artist's palette to mix and blend, to gather together a comic image of a free-willed poet, a notion both ridiculous and profound. Shaking a shaggy head, splashing on a new grin the valley explodes into light, a rising sun rains down its golden radiance, the canvas reflecting each shining word. Alas among these sparkling sounds, Deadhead's Moths emerge through the verdancy, they also are grinning, as this poem is captured by an always hovering, dismal shade. Once more a drear charcoal bleed's through a paper reality, doggedly painting a clownish grimace, as joy and sadness merge and mingle.