the strokes backward and
the paint returns to the tube and to the store
and the truck drives backwards to a factory shed of
its pigments, and I.
sit, here alone with nothing to do
trapped between the oak trees by the
road that leads up to a rustic house
and barn that I can never reach
trapped in the distance by glass, another pane
that enshrouds the splendor of my land
hanging, on the wall
since saturday is gone, I can no longer
travel back
my being is forced here, and I might
as well make the most of it.
leaves perpetually twirling, still, and I.
with time will begin to slump. my
presence in the shadow.
subtle blues come through, and
in the shadows I'm caught.
I don't belong here the leaves become angry
And the tree turns its branches to shield
me, my soul, from being seen.
but as a fire burns blue I am set free
In the smoke of the smoldering oil paint
my spirit runs
and no more can I be trapped behind glass
unless I chose to
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