palette knife
The canvas waits beneath a tempered blade.
A pale silver knife, not forged for war, I wield.
I paint the silence that the wounds betrayed.
The sky lies torn in strokes of celeste shade,
each slash more raw, no truth left unrevealed—
the canvas waits beneath a tempered blade.
No brush can bruise the dark the way I’ve flayed
these hues loose, their former grace repealed.
I paint the silence that the wounds betrayed.
My muse—half shadow, half cascade—
emerges from each mark I will not shield.
The canvas waits beneath a tempered blade.
No line stays; no form can be obeyed.
I seek what's felt, not what can be concealed.
I paint the silence that the wounds betrayed.
She stares back now, the shape that art mislaid—
a scar turned sycamore across the field.
The canvas waits beneath a tempered blade.
I paint the silence that the wounds betrayed.
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