Creativity, through opera glasses, separated by a ravine.

 
in awe - the casual way
you lever paint from a cannonball night  
as if you fell asleep  
after meditation-haze on wine,  
beside a God, crowbar in your hands,  
another ghost of creativity  
fating harmless thrums,  
you create static  
in the wake of every mile
your stiff, fictional feet trek -  
and I came,  
like a lion or a dove,  
without expectation  
to knock upon that traveller's door,  
visited. I somehow seem to  
fall in love with every wayward soul,  
so too the mud,  
so too the sea,  
we could swim  
if you'd want to
-- through Spanish guitar,  
through Myanmar temples,   
through toxic elements of venu air  
left in strands of space between planets,  
make angels on wet lawns,     
I could turn the car
over again and escape -
not look back,  
should be sent  
with long, breathy warnings,  
rinse myself in mornings  
quiet and alone,  
full of power, the notion  
of echo-melted harmonies.  
I don't share, clouded-over,
don't talk but have shored,  
made my own harbourage,
out there,  
in the wake of a mother  
on another drug led bender,  
learnt love is best tasted  
at distance - more than arm,  
more than the legs of us,
and I find paint,  
what is left of it,  
in your shadow,  
those nature-dyed eyes.  
I don't change, see,
I am
ever the voyeur,  
so know, when you've finished  
with another explosion, bound by science,  
emotive weight all expelling,  
I intend to clear the splatter,  
tidy the purge,  
take on the curse  
like a song in my lungs,
like historic essence
buried inside  
and wipe down walls,  
let the day break bright,
peaceful once more  
creativity all smoked out of you,
lighter for the dawning  
and then there'll be just me  
watching another Sunrise  
somewhere we both see.