On the Silk Canvas–were stories painted in gold
Of purple clouds and pink dots in the sky
And cherry colored fountains where people came to–
Throw the yellow coins, and make wishes about forlorn times
And the Painter would stand by the window and glance
Over the shifting blue rocks–from beneath the arid ground
While the silver bird–would often swing by
And stare at its shadow–which looked like that of a broken man
And now and then a hundred unknown faces
Would stare inside the glass door, and find a pungent silence
Hovering over their heads
On the Silk Canvas–were stories rotting away
Of orange doves hanging by strands of black threads
And orchids of grey fatigue tied with white ribbons of defeat-
They arrive at the doorsteps of a brown house made of clay sheets
And the Painter would stand by the glass door and glance
And shut himself away, recoiling once again like a frigid tapestry
It is probably a phase. A nasty one though. But yes we all have been there…once or more than once. So it wouldn’t be a surprise to know that it is no trip through a candy land.
Heart is a fickle and complicated thing. And we all know that as well.
There are days and many of them i tell you, that i am all past loneliness..a stage that very few can get to…but everyone seems to know about perfectly, and that is the time when i know that it is okay i guess. Some have it worst.
After all i have an almost broken heart to live for…and by and many other things.
So there is me….and my almost broken heart…i keep it that way. I know if it gets beyond that i’d be in trouble. And i know i don’t like handling trouble.
Among other reasons i know i can’t afford one…fully broken heart right now. I just can’t.
Anddd..well lets just say…that i am much better than that. Much stronger.