A Painting

January 14, 2009
I pick up my brush
Smooth, solid, real
Against my palm

I dip it into
A puddle of red
Audacious, brash
The heart beating
Against my ribcage
Or a ferocious fire
Intent on destruction

I smear a thick line
Across the canvas
Assaulting the clean
White paper

I then realize
The color is not
What I had envisioned
But the paint
Is already dry

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