untitled 811

Laying on the floor

Dust among the dust

Light hits each speck

Differently

Creating a painting

Like brush strokes

On this canvas

I continue to paint over

Each time I feel that

It’s not coming out

Like I think it should


Maybe it could

Become something

If rather than painting over

The strokes of the past

I left them there

I let them last

And linger

Until the time comes

For them to become

A lost piece of the past


All memories of before

Are lost

Unless notated

Unless they have some cause

In what is happening 

Today

Because unless they make

The bad days go away

They are left 

To where they were made.


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