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I've unfolded the hand
that caresses a weary canvas.
Soft, pastel ever-changing glow
in repetition like a circle
with sharp edges,
it's a dimension beyond our own.
Creation revolves in no time,
fourth to none,
but labeled last to many.
Lavender sunset,
it sees not but feels.
Rolling green brush stroke
flows by that very hand
and we, the pixels,
brave our lives,
never close our eyes
to see the artist,
but always open them
admiring the painting.
I am but one among the many
who means no more than others
but I accept my worthlessness
when the rest of the world sets their worth
and throughout my everyday
I ponder what others plunder
but only see their helplessness
when the best of my world sets their worth
I am but many among the one
who moves towards curiosity
and in those answers we discover
more questions are birthed from reciprocity
and throughout my every night
others determine what I can't uncover
enduring mental endlessness
when the mysteries of the world sets our worth
rushing through this musty mind
a scent of you soothes desire
sifting through meandering winds
lifts my spirits even higher
what could be better than this moment
sweet inhalants of your incense
stop time to be in my nirvana
if I could feel like this forever
I'd never escape this instance
SleepnDrgn's e-mail address is unavailable.
Click here for a list of all of SleepnDrgn's Stories and Poetry at Sapphic Voices Authoresses.
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