Dawning

Strewn on the canvas
He hides,
Is a bright smile,
He desires.

Silencing his pride
He tries,
And solicits attention
On the sly.

A Fledgling at the game
He strays
But keeps at it,
All the same.

Messages go unanswered
Yet again,
Only a matter of time fore'
He despairs.

The angry artist cries
And brandishes his graphic sword.
Every slash, splash and drop
Meant to mar, dealt to scar.

Try as he might for ever long
His strokes cannot destroy
That which he in his dreams wrought
That of which his eyes bespoke.

A knowing, tired sigh he sighs
With a wry smile of knowledge
Of the foolishness of his cries
And the vanity of a lover's rage.

A shattered dream invariably spills
Many more fragments of pain,
Than those splendid little thrills
We stitch together in our brain.

Its all a question of seasoned taste
Where no science can steer a ship
That sails by with enamored haste
Driven on by a desire's whip.