I am sorry to say, I have seenvacant
               picture, lies
glued to thepage, told in lead and ink, and
               slavesin chains working by rote in the rainbow-colored
orchards of paper.And when colored
     between the lines with pencilslabeled
yellow-green and sky-blue, magenta and fuchsia, auburn and
     jasmine, laser lemon and shocking
pink, even the gentlest ofbreezes
would scatter into black and white
     scribbles, deceiverson the blank sheet. Sadly, I have seen porcelain
leaves turn topowdered ash on loose leaves, synthetic blotches drawn
fiercely overivory petals; crayon's coarse tips taking blood
     from fuchsia'sstems.

     When the first bud, the first wilted leaf falls, will
anyone be there to catch it and trace its lonesome
     perimeter?When its arms outstretch and open and
               call, no one will bethere.
     
      I have seen discordant reds and
whites and blues and greens and unattainable pasts and
     growingyears dumped on a page on a
careless whim, and I have seen petalslike choirs on aflower
blossoming,
          but the pages arethe ones, flooded with gawking eyes,
     framed
     and hanging on emptywalls.