Posted: Sun Jan 21, 2007 4:59 am
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She dosen't paint pictures in the morning.
She thinks the light is bad for her eyes.
Instead, she'll mop the floors. She'll
iron the sheets and clean the oven.
She'll do the garden, she'll dig holes.
In every hole she plants a magic seed.
By afternoon she's waiting for her
seeds to grow, to transport her away.
She hopes she can get through the day
in a rumbled, sort of half-assed fashion.
By early evening she approaches the
taunt fabric of her emotional canvas.
She paints her pictures in the night-time,
when the stars are dancing in the skies.
Her paintbrush stroking softly the images
of the characters she has drawn in pencil.
Her mind escapes the dreary reality of
the daylight life that she is forced to live.
No one ever sees the finished creation.
When its done, she puts it in the attic.
One day she'll emerge from her shell.
Break the barriers of her smoldering hell.
She goes to sleep when it is midnight.
She dreams of never waking up again.
CHRIS G. VAILLANCOURT[/align]
