Words and mists Poems

Art disturbs whats inside
waiting to form a material existence outside.
What is immaterial must grow,
it's hues brought to forming on canvases
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To see the colors vividly,
to see the lines forming with light
as the Scapes take shapes.
To see what the sun and moon keep
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Patched walker searching for the sun.
Crying from within asking for light.
Thirsty to the core, dried out existence.
Asking questions you will never find answers to.
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I was told my coat was made to be worn gallantly with pride,
To walk down streets and get eyes and whistles,
Such craving for pride leading to shame when the coat i have
is judged to be less than adorning.
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We are all poets.
The sun shines and does not.
Whatever gods or forces
we pray to hope them back,
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The good illusion.
Unscarred by existence,
Unpolluted by survival,
Transcending the zero cycle,
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How much your opinion is worth,
a couple of cents maybe.
To think that it's worth more is humor.
Keep the sense all day,
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I am a poet by night.
A scripter of metaphors
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You go high
You see low
You want skies
You feed fields
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This house was built with bricks of gold;
gold lined with silver and windows of transparent steel.
It’s roof is made with fillings from dust,
and the pathway that leads to it’s satin door
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