Sunday, January 26


First, last, second.
They create worlds—the they
Of lucid light playgrounds—
Where tulip pastels have their place.
Oiled valleys, layers on layers,
Gouged canyons in painted utopias,
Linseed and turpentine,
A mingled mélange of mindlessness.
You never appreciated straight lines,
Precise projections of the world.
Transfusion of mercuried dreams.
Ambiguous expressions.
Strokes from an unkind brush.
With what impression will you
Leave me?

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