because I’ve
never seen it.
Its pinks,
grays and in-between shades
I’ve never
dipped my brush.
My canvas is
bare; its rough white fibers
fight their
neighbor for a parallel resting place.
The easel
erect, the brushes unwet,
dive bristle
first into pigment and oil,
bobbing and
blending until they decide their fate.
What color
shall thou grace us with?
Blue—as deep
as the ocean, as fare and as true,
this blue is
bluer, than blue is blue.
The
nonsensical ramblings of a painter’s stroke
on canvas lay
your brushes yoke.
At last, at
last a masterpiece.
Monet, Renoir
shall feel defeat.
For finally, a
love that’s truer than true,
as blue is as blue, as blue
is blue.
