Hour 2.

he walks through the rust
by the sand worn
tin box houses
with a canvas
like a white beacon amongst the
blizzard of yellow and yellow turned reds and blues and grays
he comes to a halt
at the brick end
of his venture
the canvas binds into the scorched red
then paint
a fury of fresh colors enters the air
landing violently on the canvas
no sand penetrates them
they move freely
like the juice of a tomato
like the stain of grass
all foreign to the alleys
in which they meet
a yellow
much brighter then the
arcane sand
hits by the mans hand
now he feels the fabric of the canvas
now meeting and parting
and conceiving
by the dry leather textured brush-like
of their conductor
swift work
no borders
no chains
the paint drips and
beyond its once pure
till the wall is cloaked
from intrusion
sand grains fall inside
with no effect on the magnificent creation.
the creator turns and slowly trudges
back and back
once again concealed in the
unforgiving sand.

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