Empty canvas longing
for smooth caress of
brush, as dusty film
gathers on its surface.
Vacant images secluded in
time, as the thirst for
expression grows with
each perpetual day.

I once dreamed of vibrant
skies, books flapping their
pages over subtle seas,
playfully looping one
another, as they race along
surface,
guided to perfection with
still hand and gentle bristles.
I was a magician, maker of
miracles, bristled wand in hand,
creating life and love in
vivid tones of violets and hues.

Am I nothing more than a sponge,
panting and thirsting along
desert sands, sere air withering
my skin, almost like time dried
inspiration.
Ahh yes, a sponge, dry and empty,
exceeding the boundaries that
didn't exist, to frizzle beneath
peering sun, withering to subtle
tones of yesterday.

2001 R. Charles
(All Rights Reserved)