Bohemian In Brooklyn

Calculated marks

Scissor blank canvas’ violently

Harsh against a willing world. 

Charcoal swirls scream in strangled

Speculative

Stupor. 

Unfit only by my inept hand.

Gnarled with some inability, 

I can’t stretch out.

Cracked joints loosen dead air; 

Not dead talent.

For the page (canvas/board/wall/air)

Refuses with crossed arms

To hold my impression

As anything more than some bruised,

Blackened,

Blemish.

I re-gesso my canvas in paint no thicker than guilt,

Hiding evidence

Of incompetence that 54,000 can not overcome. 

I hope you kiss her softly; delicately

Like the connection of eyelash to lid,

nail to fingertip,

Only amid utterances of admiration

I hope she deserves.

Betwixt moments spent brushing strands back 

from her eyes

Watching light catch in them

Like prisms

illuminate your world,

Dwelling in those pigments that moved you

like a little boy, walking home from school

Alone.

For the first time

so consumed by her presence

you lost your actions

like the wax dripping down the sides of the candle you lit.

Unwilling to be a part of any barrier between you and it's wick.

Core. 

Your lips,

her eyes; glitter. 

Each facet 

outshines your every thoughtful intention

wrought purity from your quaking soul.

Madeleine Parsons