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What

I am befuddled what should I think its as if my brain has run out of ink my mind my thoughts have no shine like an unpolished shoe or a bland winter day, as if its a canvas ready to be painted and yet I have no paint
but when all hope is lost words come flowing like a river of color
flowing with happiness and joy, bursting with wonders the shoe is polished, spring has come, flowers are open, and a sense of a pure awesome and almighty urge to sing and dance
are all experienced on one page
by a list of words that fit together in a flowing, raging river
and what sadness comes after this joy
when the words are all written down
when you think of before it feels miles, years, centuries away
it is the cycle of art.
the paint has dried up and all you are left with is fall before winter, mud on your shoes and a new canvas.

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