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Showing results for tags 'imaginary paintings'.
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Thoughts- A little desk, at which sits An ageless person, Made out of mirrors To reflect all the volumes. Catching only fragments of whats there In it's many many mirrors. Neglecting some volumes for a while. Neglecting some forever. But day and night, they reflect the volumes And volumes And volumes They write at the little desk, in the Growing library Filled with all the volumes. Creativity- A rainbow of colors moving outward In a spiral, Until its ambitious tendrils Colorfully reach, extend onto the Plain White Walls Of the Dusty Old Museum.
Indecision- A complete and Utter blue, unsure about whether it is the sky, Raining and shining, And feeding the world, Or the sea, Accepting what The world does not Want. Or maybe neither, Maybe just a mirror, A reflection of such wonders. Sadness- A large dark shadow hangs, Solid and unfazed, Above an otherwise happy city. It peeks at you where you stand, And stands above mountain peaks, Always watching, waiting, judging, Ready to pounce. People rebel, But no one can defeat that Which is not really there Except inside of them. So the warriors fight the beast within, By turning guns and swords to themselves. And the people watch as the beast grows tall, Too tall, And blocks the last of the sun. And the happy city turns sad.
Dreams- A distant oasis Hard to see clearly In the desert sun, Where you everything you wish Comes true in the waters of the pool. But no amount of walking, Will take you where you wish, As the oasis walks, The same pace, Many miles ahead. And so it becomes a kind of Hell. The heat, the boredom, The longing. Until you trip, Disrupt your even walking, And realize with a jolt, That none of it was ever really there. Just a mirage of your mind. Hope- A golden halo, Too high for any one to reach. A man, Or maybe many, Bringing their step stools, Their ladders, Their chairs, Their hearts, And climbing to the shining circle above. Until, Alas, They are blinded by What turns out to be the sun. They are ruined by their optimism. They are too vain To see their efforts Were in vain. Passion- A hot burning fire In absolute pitch black, That slowly reveals beings, Writhing in the darkness, Grateful, So grateful, For the fire’s light. But the fire feeds from them, Gathers from them, And rises (slowly) From the canvas, Until it rises into its surroundings, Swallowing the people who Admired it, So very much admired it, Feeding from them, Gathering from them.