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By darwin Date: 2004 Mar 12 Comment on this Work [[2004.03.12.14.19.22423]] |
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he lived somewhere. that someplace where all can be sometimes. he lived a faint dream, as he was in mine. he had paints and dishes, and sometimes both piled high equally. his house was ramshackled and hidden behind forgotten vinyl siding, some silver plated hope built on a dirt hill. there was clapboard in some places, dirt thrown recklessly about it, some semblence of a prior homestead. yet his head was full of dreams, and envy. as often minds are filled. his hair was wired, as if electricity was born from his curled sprigs. his body just as wiry, and unsettled, earth tumbled underneath that skin. i felt the seismic waves, even when he was miles away. i feel them now years later. but sometimes eternity takes to long, as we often learn. and those promises you make, that you would wait forever, turn into hours, minutes, seconds... underneath that clapboard lived these vibrant paintings. that he would paint when the light would hang low on the horizon. when he was hidden from life and the reality it often brings. this bubble of fantasy that covered him, that glazed his eyes when he looked into the distance. he painted wings and angels, and the crowns amidst heads fair and dark alike. then the board would go back up in the morning. just a mystery inches deep. for him, I was just a spread of paint at first. a vine that he painted on a door-frame. My birth and hour are unknown really. when I emerged from the flotsam and jetsam, from the photosynthesis that gave Me life. I was green in arrival. My skin dewy, as in the morning, when my leaves unfold and welcome the sun. My hair golden bright petals, surging toward the coming day. I was lithe and willowy, as I wound my way from the vine. just a little bit of earth and magic. WE lived together for a while, i suppose. when sun would fall and magic would take them away for the evening. Iwould crawl away from the painted vines. make my way to his side. and he would paint...paint with love and urgency. our day ended in the morning, when the sun rose and the rooster crows, and days begin again when we must be seperated. who wouldn't want such mea culpa in their life. who wouldn't overflow to feel magic during such a crowded hour. when midnight sleep flowed over the rest of the world, we crept into the stars and felt the vastness of the time we were inhabiting. and the limits it can impose. i wonder where he is and what he did, and who he touched, after I woke up this morning, and realized...he was only a dream last night. |