An Artists Mucked Up Pallette

to those of us with a finely tuned ear
silky brass notes calling in dreams
waking up only knowing to sing

drumming out tri-pl-ets

hearing the wind shield wipers create symphonies

to those of us
that lust after the dust in the wings darkened
the green room laughter
down stage right
beams of light
as we project
out
into the hearts of the silent

and watching

to those of us

 with perfectly arched feet
blistered
who count in sets of eight
perfectly alligned
center
grounded
flying over dense stereo rhythms

to the rare few

that own a micron pen
etch illusions into bound books
stretched canvas
toil over colors complimenting time
the quiet few
that see reality as an option
color as a friend

to those of us
consumed by the world
in fear of never knowing
why we blindly walk to the galleys
awaiting the death
of a strange calling
to kamikaze a sensible life

 for the artistic good
that never goes away