I saw the colours of your music, I heard the words of your painting and I closed my eyes to the the feelings of your dance.
The scream, Munch for my attention, the stroke, each canvas whispers to me, Black Pearl, I see them, strips of colour. Red shoes gently taps at my feet.
So distant but still I know not of the grain of dirt the land you live in, but if graced with a voice perfect like an orchestra, a face so surreal,as you dance your way into my heart. Your not beauty, Your art itself
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YOU ARE READING
Poetry
PoetrySometimes the a troubled mind will not speak, it writes so when you read you can hear the power of your own voice.
