cerulean skies and warm beams of golden light to bask in, the rustle of leaves on threadbare trees, the squirrels search for hidden spoils unspoiled by the touch of man

seeking solace from this wracking cough, this somber sickness that infuses and drains, the scratching of pencil on the pad and furious erasing of another fraudulent sketch, still renderings of inadequate art

eyes closed the scene dances and sways, but the disconnect from brain to finger is too vast to be corrected, painting with words seems less than satisfactory, preferring tongue and lip than synapse to muscle

she sits in the lotus position as the wind and sun fight to wrap themselves around her, to embrace and shower affection upon her silent form, her natural glow bending nature to her will

a new bout of coughing and this incessant fever seem determined to eradicate the calming images, to thrash and pummel until all that remains is the broken pieces of lead and childish scribbles

a hawk circles, watching the futility of life imitate art imitate life, all while intimate odes are left to blow with the eraser and shavings into the peaceful chaos of his mind, unsettled by congestive insolence

he lays back in the grass and feels the world tremble beneath him, soft shudders and wheezing breaths, frustrated by the lack of ability yet willing to fight through it, needing to create, to confess, to coerce his mind eye to life

yet nothing spills forth from his need, vacant in desperation, trying too hard and achieving too little, the half hearted artist with his full heart on display to a world that doesn’t know he’s there

so he lies back and let’s the thoughts run rampant, having to content himself with the burned in after images with every blink, photo negative drawings etched into his eyelids, carved onto optic nerves, and sleep until the sick is abated