Watching Paint Dry.

Relaxing In The Pigments Of My Imagination.


I have watched men die,
their eyes going vacant,
their lips whispering
of loves or mom,
it is as if they escape
the cocoon in which
their soul grew wings.

I have seen abuse on children
in trailer parks,
and shabby homes,
big eyes wide with fear,
pure flesh bruised in
dark reminders to
listen carefully
or be beaten.

I have heard the cries of people,
trapped inside a burning car,
all efforts to reach them futile,
my hands singed and
soul melting in despair,
as they barbecued
in a metal incinerator.

I have known loneliness
that drives one to the edge
of a bridge over a long chasm,
to contemplate free-falling
into complete oblivion,
but suddenly realizing
that no girl was worth dying over.

I was a military policeman,
who saw the ugly side of people,
the dark sides of war,
and the chaos of disorder,
I came away swearing off
its foul taste.

Eventually I chose to be an artist,
covering my recollections
with bright colors,
and coming to the understanding
that after all I was forced to witness,
I would rather watch paint dry.

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