Painting a picture

Thoughts, dreams, reality,
blending together in a mindly amalgamation,
like milk into tea
and sugar in that,
I drink them up, altogether,
a ponderous brew whose sweetness bears a question,
written in the dregs that puddle its shallows:
What are you?

You believe freedom lies in being free,
free from responsibility,
from duty,
and now you’ve but the naked canvas.
Paint something.
You can paint anything.
And as the dry brush mocks you with its many bristles,
you can but throw paint at the wall,
blaming your art on gravity as it
and slides to its knees,
weeping through the gap beneath the door.

There, amidst the red, yellow and blue,
you see your eyes,
flooding the landing,
down the stairs
to rest at the foot of an empty bed;
covers thrown,
pillow askew,
but they cannot fold and shape into a lover.

Hold them as you may,
the morning won’t bring you kisses.

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