A Painter’s Rendition Of Counterfeiting (or Stealing The Senses)
I paint with cranberries and sundowns,
canvas nibbling form and shape,
into a better clarity,
our lives smudged onto the wood, mixes,
and whatever seen is its own witness pictured,
in the majesty of the prism
Father of color is the beginning of the day - the white crescent rises,
changing shifts with my brush at once that will replicate,
what we find, when the best things found keep us silent as they will
when we are reminded of the sight and the light- long from now
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem