Hope, a blush, blooms and arises from my heart,
As the touch of a soaked paint brush;
Dipped into rainbow pink and violet blue and gleaming yellow;
All designed to tickle my senses, to revive my passions,
In the heated moist of an art room:
In the ice of the cool blue water as it washes away the dirt, the anger,
Seething in the cotton of my white shirt.
Love, love, is a balloon that rises from the tips of my fingernails,
As I claw furiously for the elusive edge;
And flies away in the milky purple sky,
Waving a hand, goodbye.
Love is the mist that curls a blanket over the lonely green fields,
As their golden weeds wave like petals in the September breeze.
Love is the terrible beauty that seizes your every essence
And grinds it to ash at your feet.
If love is a tender dream,
I am lost in its colourful, forbidden world
forever;
As the tall lollipop trees surround me, submerge me,
Consume me in the zig-zag patterns on your chaotic shirt.
If love is a tender dream,
it is eating me.