Artwork By Imagination

Blue soaks the softness and tip of my lips,
Coldness so near, causing strokes and bad slips,
A blushing soft pink crawls through my speckled face,
Boldly but shyly, netted through with white lace,
Green eyes through blind pupils, blury but alive,
Quite tender living skin, as from sleep I am deprived,
A pale cream and peach begins to form my chest,
A ravishing bright lemon, begins to form my breast.
Shrivelled up still dying, outside the clouds have bore,
Our secret little grey-head, who is becoming timely poor.
And beside my hand I see a dream, a bush of wooly balls,
Whose tiny siren screeches, are soundless scattered calls.
And as I sit and wonder, my self portrait by my hand,
My sea-view so very lively, digging up the gritted sand,
Is this mind a timeline, a view of all things good?
A mind of only starlight, a fire burning wood?
Or is this artwork beauty, of one should not exsist?
And should this be the case, I hold life in my fist.

Boneata Bell


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