June 15 by The Running Son
The purple tree you painted for me
is crying. Love streaks the canvas,
and the outlines are dying.
Try to see that we have broken through:
my colors will highlight you
in the perfect hue to hold you with.
I’ll mold your fine lines golden,
dark hair folding sun,
and sit you, small, on the grass
with one broad pass of my brush.
Enough of solid red and blue.
This tree, it’s blue and purple leaves
bruise me too. The you I knew
fused dreams and paints, but came up
brushing streaks away
to keep us new, and safely framed.
by Jim Aldrich
.namaste. -• ö.tH(ink)Mÿstiç •- .namaste.