|
|
sometimes...
in a fit of artistry,
in my very own personality,
I forget to breathe.
I drown in this sensitivity to light,
this play of color on your hands.
This ... way with words.
Love is such a beautiful ground
to grow contempt.
Ideals flounder, fish from water,
we’re all desperately seeking
the same thing ...
I forget sometimes,
I must breathe to survive.
I’m lost in one of your pictures,
a vast cavernous room,
looming in its emptiness.
It lacks color, like my eyes,
it lacks color like my lines.
Only the poet or the saint can water
an asphalt pavement in the confident
anticipation that lilies will reward his labour.
Kris Montoya
|
|
|
|
|
