Tuesday, June 30, 2015

Awaiting Creation

Color has no rhythm
And harmony no hue
Art is a scream never uttered

Fiction is oil paints for the blind,
Mixing color, hearing silent backbeats
Psychedelic metaphors for those
Shards of surreality, painted on a canvas of air
and shorn trees

Greens and blues, orange and scarlet
Hang in the balance of words
Wild silhouettes, written first in the nude but
Clothed in experiences

Empty symbols, never meant
Are gnawed, chewed and swallowed
By the teeth of fashion

A masterpiece awaits
Its own creation
Waiting only for its master

To get around to it.

By Weston Elliott, copyright 2015, All Rights Reserved

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