You paint me with the colors I abhor,
your brushstrokes shade my immediate smile,
mixed tones of gray and blue marking each mile
that you alone can say you’ve traveled more.
But, I am no canvas, no sketch-book page
where inspiration’s masterpiece lingers
like desire in your elegant fingers
enfolding me, or starting to enrage
the gentle burning I must now accept
as wisdom will embrace a needed pain.
Like rhythms dancing in my crowded brain;
I can't erase the moments I have kept.
Mark me with your grandiloquent design,
showing me how you will always render
reflected images you’ve surrendered
to the passion of matter over mind,
cajole me with the breadth of your reach,
convince me with the melody of lust;
play me with the harmony of mistrust
and wonder not of promises or me!
Member Since: 9/15/2006