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Hands MAG
It is a history, the room,
layering souls over the walls in
multicolored memories.
Hands, bronze and deliberate,
create a rhythm in their task.
Strips of white roll across
the tired blue expanse.
Laughter, caught
in the window,
echoes from the past.
I ask him if he can hear it,
but he only smiles and
drips
white paint on my nose.
© Anonymous
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This article has 3 comments.
caedanse said...
on Apr. 2 2011 at 12:30 am
Cute and meaningful.
FeedTheBirds SILVER said...
on Aug. 15 2010 at 6:57 pm
This is mine, but not linked to my account.
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