Barrage

Belittled are the sparks,

Arranged, and ignited in me.

Reassured of my misplacement,

Referenced casually.

All too disillusioned am I.

Gross hours, gross days

Each silence an eraser.

Belittled are the sparks,

All too disillusioned am I

Reference me, reference me.

Reassured of my misplacement,

Anyway, I voice the spark.

Grappling with the lack of fire,

Each attempt a testament.

Canvas

I sat at the canvas for a year,

I've been waiting here for ever.

I stared at the blank page for a long time,

Insistent that there was something there.

There are pails of colours around me, 

I finally dip my fingers in. 

Each bucket's colours stain me, 

And streak my page. 

She told me that once finished,

She needed the paintings to run free.

The longer they stayed with her, 

The more strained she'd feel.

I find myself pinning my work to string,

Like developed photographs

Freshly out of solution. 

The poised images of my altered heart.

Corves.

Hope has been known to humiliate,

When silence has a lot of breath.

Silence can be ridiculing,

And hope, hateful.

Whose force is larger?

The seen and heard silence,

Or the un-sensed notion?

I fight for one.

For a long time, I forgot.

I forgot that realised hope intoxicates.

I forgot the misery of silence,

When I'm moved by hopefulness.

I gather the hopes in a corf,

Optimism is my container.

The silence I respect.

Even as I acknowledge the presence of fire.