(big font for varentao)


when the clock slid onto twelve he let his cigarette simmer-
settin it next to the palette and letting the ashes collect in the oils-
clippings of reviews lay shuffled amongst empty wine bottles-
bruised canvas prop each other up against the shadowed fireplace-
it is the rage of artistic feeling shoved into wages of the unkown-
behind a hung bedsheet water is boiling on the rusty stove-
he pays it no attention for there is a blank world in need of color-
mixing the new found combination of ashes and oil,he paints-
his mind fetches ideas of a love affair covered up by riches-
glancing at a faded picture,he remembers love can never be covered-
a streak of green lead by his imagination of a midsummer walk-
the mantel holds a vase of dried out daisies,but he can smell them still-
it is the sensation of being alive cooped into a rented apartment-
the brush strokes leave a story with every curve,even mistake, made-
he knows his mind wants to break out, to fill the blankness, but it cant-
bitter remarks are made at the brush as the canvas is tossed aside-
a fresh start, no green this time, a cloud of orange tones instead-
he smiles remembering the lust involving the fruit of happiness-
he has the wonders of Tibet hanging next to the window-
the treasures of Egypt gaze out while he sleeps in somber-
adventures along the Amazon stay by books of intelligence-
it is his colorful world inside an apartment of ruins lit by his gift-
his life in Italy is left to dry on the easel as he runs behind the bed sheet-


leave love, it'll be returned..

one love