I have crayons in my heart,
we all do.
I don’t know how to handle them.
they seem to work their color magic
with invisible hands made of my emotions.
I never learned the actuals of coloring
but there are no lines by this heartfelt method.
all the colors seem to have spiritual fragrances.
the landscape of the day is a wander in this way.
the symphony plays as if smells’ entertaining.
light-hearted is a seemingly constant broadcast.
just the spread of these color is all around.
it is more than an invitation for me.
there is this calling as if a necessity,
to see the colors of the world all around
whatever of this is,
is the grip on me.
it yields respectfully to the spread of these colors.
not so bothered with the shape of images per say.
but the exude, the blush, the embrace,
the smother of imbibed impressions,
donating the blood of attention to the cause,
the endurance of constant-flowing’s surrounds,
more colors than the wisdom-of-age offers,
as visual praise is the renderings as feedback.
I am on pages with no edges.
nothing is ever a sketch or decided.
the contact features the exquisite pressure of existence.
there is ever-flow pouring out.
images come and go
but the colors soothe into my being,
as if this coloring of the day passes through me.
there is a sea of blends all around,
not living for images sighted.
these colors speak to me most directly
in a spiritual dialogue
that takes on melody.
there is the prism of lips saying the sounds,
of hues, tints, tones,
within the emotions of dew,
as we all dew.
liquidities of likeness are fluid into the swim.
all this is done hands-free.
I am pages where you are profound.
leave for me part of the surge of your passing.
I breath in your fragrances to live.
hot wax never lies.
I tremble inside the visuals
of living the glide . . .