Posted in Poem


She was painting a picture,
Water blue, the sky lit white
Shore had yellow, mustard, a bit of brown
But how did the sea in her picture make that sound?
Bikini and sunglasses, readers and surfers
But why could he not un-see that  sundress fluttering and listen to that one girl thinking?
The bushes were green; flowers dotted pink, yellow and red
But why it was the wilted ones who talked beyond words?
The memories were clear, the picture being painted with a hint of quagmire
But why were the details from that one dialogue reading between the forbidden lines?


I don't create content. I pour my soul.

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