Eng. Project- Untitled.

When weeds grow around my rooted
feet, and there is nothing more to a helping
hand than empty air and false promises, those redundant
phrases lose the meaning they once had.
On such days, my body lies in trembling, horrid
anticipation, waiting for the chaotic symbolism hiding
in another's voice. Anger's door waits for me like a snake
hiding among the grass, like a frown of guilt
on a friend's face. Knock twice on this wall, stranger;
my guarded ears can only hear coded requests
and emotions we have yet to feel.

Such is the living grave of humanity, colored
with mysteries and secrecy, bringing hate upon us all. How
do we erase the heated words on turbulent tongues?
Color our feet to visualize the redundant paths we treck.
These threads of life experience are wrought
with loving strokes, drawing themselves to life, taking
our preconceptions and shattering them as hardened clay.

Friend, this is my escape, my one salvation.
Breathe the heavy hues my lungs rejoice in;
watch the autumn bricks fade to
turquoise skies on the canvas of life.
A brush moves in and around one's emotions,
inking out negativity with a blink of an
eye, swaying to the heady melodies of careless
clarity. It is in this soul-searching place
where I realize why Picasso painted.

A bandage will only hide a wound, but art repairs
the soul; it takes one to that place where rejection
turns to a personal perfection, where abstract fades into
absolute. There I find trees singing to their resident birds,
idealistic in their mocking harmonies. "Original"
has meaning there, cemented churchyard
angels come alive and breathe there.

When I'm up to my ears in acrylic
dreams, thinking halts. Hypnotic patterns form
among solitary sketches, created from imagination,
filling my mind with hallucinated brilliance. That which
comes from a paintbrush and oils causes the
sun to rise and set, giving way to sharp yellow stars.
I come away from myself, tuning into the free-falling silence.
There I know I can survive.