self-indulgence
It's all just a bunch of lines.
Lines and colors, directing the eye in circles,
lines that never go anywhere,
unless steered by a veteran captain.
it's like a poem that doesn't get bogged down in syllables,
where subtle flicks of a pen can say more than any of your sonnets.
line width drawing the eye upwards,
only to have spiraling shades and hue tear it all down again.
Metaphors become slow and awkward,
while strokes dance around them, mercurial,
spelling out their messages at the speed of watercolor.
Gentle french curves draw the attention in, and reject it in the same luxurious movement,
cold and inviting all at once.
Dusty tomes capture words,
while pictures float on dragon wings.
This is an accidental poem.
Lines and colors, directing the eye in circles,
lines that never go anywhere,
unless steered by a veteran captain.
it's like a poem that doesn't get bogged down in syllables,
where subtle flicks of a pen can say more than any of your sonnets.
line width drawing the eye upwards,
only to have spiraling shades and hue tear it all down again.
Metaphors become slow and awkward,
while strokes dance around them, mercurial,
spelling out their messages at the speed of watercolor.
Gentle french curves draw the attention in, and reject it in the same luxurious movement,
cold and inviting all at once.
Dusty tomes capture words,
while pictures float on dragon wings.
This is an accidental poem.