I see elegant swipes,
dances in moonlight
across empty landscapes
filled with only tangled bodies
enjoying a private canvas
of intertwined starlight:
A mirror of imagery I pull from the romantics.
You see the blankness
without its name.
You’re drawing conclusions
while I’m scratching in annotations.
You enjoy a private canvas
as the sum of its parts:
The product of the romantics detached from our age.
( ❤ Mitch)
