(no subject)

[walkinyoursmile]

the lighthouse shines down on the circle
the mountain converges his stone
where the circles of the concave forest they call his forsaken
fountain of life
and all protruding lines
slide down on the graphite
and drip like a tear
falling to more focused distinctions
as to what he feels
to what he is
and where he will be
for those lines in their form
controlled by the color
shade every last tear into
his impressionist mind
as each color facades to another
whispering the whispers that cannot be
written or spoken or explained
but only seen in a matter of hope
as he hopes they will become something