Poem for the Pencil Picture
For the love of God, kiss the sea and have the trees grow out of me. The mountains push their boiling peaks, trees budding from their ash. Plate tectonics shift and shake, shaping the crust at last. There are diamonds forming harshly in the pressure of my thoughts. A world deprived of colour, grey reigns with no contrast. My hand is pressed against the page still white and vacant. Its empty spaces ease my mind Empty skies to dream and fly. The mountains roll behind knowing eyes, My own pencil knows more than mine. An ‘X’ across a graphite face — my drawings I’ve come to hate. White paint along a blended cheek, the man in prayer kisses the sea, but his reflection simply kisses me.