the drain sings lovely
some of us lose all the time
time after time
until our true colours have bled out
and we start to see things in black and white
question on which side our shadows cuddle light
which sun offers up a tanned braising against a weak pale puffed burning
eagerly the skin turns to paper
and we’re unsure if we can capture enough words
before we become curling ashes in our pyres
for some of us, art is the air we breathe daily, until we drown ourselves in the bathtubs of our failed accomplishments
the drain sings lovely songs
bubble babble trickle symphony sung in the voices of those held dearest
in places where physically none are held anymore
these empty arms and trembling hands remember the way we painted each other
stroke by stroke, our brushes one anothers blushes
crimson your cheeks
raw-red from the joy-cry of understood and accepted
and named true
with words lovingly whispered through actions unspoken.
Written by: Michael Morlock, a father, artist, and time traveler from New England. You can find him @themancalledmorlock on Instagram
Would you like to add your opinion? Instead of commenting on this post please write/create something to be shared with the community.
Wanna read more? Here’s another great piece in our Morality Collection Frayed Ends by Geoff Blanchette
Jayne.press 