I could never paint just morning
(mourning is never easier)
without dipping my brush
in Earth’s greens and blues—
and just you, as the clouds
and winter chills upon spring’s
virgin lands. Flaming flowers,
melting hues dripping from all
our lives and her canvas.
When we were bathed in
the light of life, we easily forgot
that such lives are not meant
for dreamers and lovers like you.
:: 08.11.2024 ::
E.P. Robles | Poetry 