The brush tip sweeps beneath his nose
and passes lightly in an arc,
across the canvas of repose
as fantasies invest the dark.
The palette tilts, the colors blend,
in subterfuge of contrasts stark,
through somber-shadowed thoughts contend
to wrest unopened parcels wrapped,
in search of room, from end to end.
Dark horses bolt from cruel whips snapped.
The ground swells churn in sure stampede.
As reins slip from strained-bridles strapped
to empty post or tumbleweed,
the snoring man, still, sleeps indeed!
The Gadfly
Originally Posted On Site: 2008-06-06 04:13:12
Last Login: 05.17.10
Visits as of 12-12-07: 568
Comments:
|
|||
|
|||
