The strokes of the brush
Stand proud—
A blotch for a hat;
A sweep’s the wind.
Red climbs on the shoulders of blue
And purple rises atop.
Even the name,
Snug in the corner,
Sits up straight
Proud of its accomplishment.
The strokes of my pen
Lie mute.
Handwritten—
My words might tail off
while the letters within connect.
Maybe these tails cross my t’s
And my i’s are dotted by hollow circles.
Yet, you’ll never know
Because here they extend before you
In disguise.
1 comments:
I visited the National Gallery in DC and was inspired to write this poem. This has a similar theme to a number of my poems on this blog, but most closely to "Naked."
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