watery eye

through the watery eye the bulbus nose
the artist shines his brownish leather spats
through a mirror at his best repose
he stills himself while in the laundramat
thinking crimson shapes and cobalt dances
with his softest brush he shapes a poem
to his living life his loves his chances
his missing parts and how his path still roams
in prarie sweeping winds in mountians stair
along the deepend paths of forest loam
full in the humid darkness perfumed air
far and near to all that he calls home

tumbling heat the droneing dryer calls
he stretches a bit then back to dreaming falls

the aging white upon his templed brow
holds his story canvassed in his mind
his vision is as clear as he allows
he tips his flask until his lips it finds
resting sepia's how he sees himself
the crimson then is tempered to the mood
his strokes are bolder colors from his shelf
now the painting tastes of sumptuous food
he reaches in his pocket for some barter
he crosses to the nearest sacred bar
he pays obeisance to the oaken alter
then steps outide to smoke beneath his star

the steam from dryng garments balm the air
the canvass waits in darkness neath the stair

along his easy way he trudges home
his duffel balanced on his woolen hat
a cigarette glows smokey rings that roam
round t s elliot drains and wandering bats
his creaky door he unlocks opens wide
a linseed soaked aroma feeds the air
flourescent light floods out onto the side
of grey and boarded windows that declare
police line do not cross forbidden zone
he softly closes to the freezing air
he hears a gentle beeping from his phone
wishing with his soul that someones there

the canvas stands prepared for his waiting vision
he stares at it then make a firm decision

cobalt blue on lead white burnt sienna
yellow ocre pthalo green red deep
on his pallate ready long ago
hardened to a nutshell fast asleep
he picks his paint he freshly squeezes color
he cleans his brushes mixes to his liking
with great determination feigns the scholor
contemplating line and shape then striking
he lashes out like pollak in his shed
his colors falling hard against the white
for hours on end he concentrates he weds
to shadow shape to texture and to light

his painting done at last away he falls
asleep with brushes palate gain'st the wall

his cigarettes have long ago exausted
his bottle gone his spirit soaring high
never thinking twice about the cost of
sleepless dreaming night to frigid sigh

he dreams of being somewhere in the snows
painting winter landscapes far away
watching chrystal stars light up the bows
of icey ships who's masts ner' know the day

he never wakes again he's still there leaning
next to his masterpiece a sculptures dream
he 's never been discovered and his meaning
lost to all who's passion rests in seem

his love of what he does all time trancends
he remains at vigil till life ends