The tears puddle
out of nowhere
do they fall from bliss or to bliss?
The release is imcomplete
though comforting.
The tears season
our tasteless lives and
we find a flavor like
no other.
The taste is fulfilling
yet lacking.
The tears trace
the cheek and spot
the shirt
finding a moment's saturated
pleasure.
They dry up quickly
and are forgotten till
the next emotional flood.
Like an addict
in withdrawal
I get shaky.
Nauseous.
I seek a hit.
A high.
It's nothing I can
buy at the pharmacy.
Nor the street corner.
The only fix is
within my creative soul.
Artfully.
A blob of cerulean.
A drop of sienna.
A shapeless wonder.
I seek and find
a moment's satisfaction.
Brief but enough.
1 comment:
I would like to share this with a fellow crafter whose husband has some serious health issues.
May I cut and paste it to send to her.
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