The brush danced like a prima ballerina.
The rainbow of colors spewing from
It's soft,
Worn bristles.
Its trajectory as calculated as missiles,
And as precise as decisions from officials.The artist's hand that wields such a weapon
Is none other than the one sitting next to me.
I wish to talk to them,
Compliment the gem
In which they're creating.
But I do not know this person,
So I will keep to myself,
And watch as the worn brush works its way
Around sharp edges
Of messy sketches.
YOU ARE READING
As Time Slows Around Us [Poetry]
PoetryAs complicated as time itself, like the silent conversations with the moon and sun, lie the complexity of the screaming but silent thoughts of the stars. "All that we see or seem is but a dream within a dream." ...