When you are painting your own verse
do not hold the brush of others
it will distort the image
same colors speak a strange language
canvas will appear distant
bits will mimic
alien speech
not me!
work will screech.
Singing a rehearsed song
can hardly emerge 'you'
with all that is confirmed,
worked, attuned.
You, a stream
falling without wisdom
who it will meet
you, a flower that blooms
without a clue
of time and space
it will please whom
with its color, grace
you, a drop of dew
drowning in the depth of dust
its certain death it can only trust.
Your place may be beneath others
like a blade of forgotten grass
or above the kingdom of clouds
it is you, your text, your own words
dancing in the middle of watching eyes
moving
fall and rise of stars
whispering to you who you are
experiences will surface in time
from the bed of blues breaking into light
expressions
poem of life you write
actions black and white
is all that matters
in what your life offers.
Others might have their ways to recover
through their looks you do not cower
your painting
beyond right or wrong,
path you ceaselessly pass
a river
that cannot take sides
thanks to its banks
immersed in its space
breathing life, its hues
murmur in passing
it's you, it's you.
