Hour glass lightening
Quick sand flighting
As we sit here i want to count the colours of the forest before us, and paint with them, the wonder of the sun looking through your eyes as you write me a poem like you always do while we hold two sides of a beautiful vision; one side of a song.
So the hour glass matters naught
the moving sand does not count
A poem and a painting is enough
transcending the vestige of the lie; the seeming momentariness of our song.
A poem and a painting.