How will I paint the picture of my life?
Will I paint pretty pictures of ease with
minute minerals of water and color
and be satisfied with just enough to get by?
Should I nervously sketch the seconds
of the sands of now with pencils
impatient to see what will appear next?
Maybe, I will color between
the lines of yesterday
hoping to fill in the blanks of today.
Possibly, I could set in front of a screen
of light cutting and pasting moments
of the past into the present.
Perhaps, I would pull pastels
across the paper of my life
and press them with passion,
breathing the peace of a moment that
will last only as long as it is undisturbed
and left in a place that will allow me to be
only what I was then.
I could bend acrylics into extremes
that are unimaginable only until
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