I often
get lost
in your
canvas
p a l a c e
My hands
all dirty
with
old
p a i n t
What’s the colour
of your
dreams?
I d a r e
a s k
Yet you
never
utter
a single
w o r d
So I strive to
find my
answer
in ink
s k e t c h e s
*
I often
get lost
in your
canvas
p a l a c e
My hands
all dirty
with
old
p a i n t
What’s the colour
of your
dreams?
I d a r e
a s k
Those
undecipherable
ink
s
t
r
o
k
e
s
Paint
pirouettes
that won't
tell any
t a l e s
*
My dreams
are
sometimes
coloured
y e l l o w
— with
a
dash
of
b l u e —
Your eyes closed,
while I get lost
in the true opacity
of those abstract
i m a g e s
So I let
all shades sink in—
colouring your reverie
back to
r e a l i t y
wording wondrous wreckage
imagining feasts of rhyme
and lusting after
verse-full fancy
ty p i ng
t
h
e
e
n
n
u
i
a w a y
through burgundy
written
stanzas
as
the
drama
Queen
she
wasn’t
meant
to
be
.
.
.
y e t — s h e ' d b e c o m e
.
.
.
and
then
she closed
her eyes
p
r
e
t
e
n
d
i
n
g
n o t h i n g
h a d
e v e r
h a p p e n e d
wandering
around,
drunk
in summer scents—
so thoughtlessly,
yet meaning
to get
lost—
in your green
wilderness,
i try to
escape
this grey and
never-ending
urban foliage
dreaming of
a summer forest—
forever
home
for my
adoptive
tree
she wears
a pink dress
to hide
her petulant
d a r k n e s s
turbulently staring
as if she’d been living
the dream and was now
anxiously grasping for
b r e a t h
when she finds out
about reality
she starts
walking the walk—
those platform
s h o e s
the ones that
so very
silently
hurt her
slim
a n k l e s
towering
over his thoughts,
pink-stained,
so very
badly
e n c l o s e d
In the yet to be
unmasked
confines
of his
i m a g i n a t i o n
LannaZee 