Unfinished Canvas
The blue is a heavy, hollow thing,
An ocean held up by the breath of the day.
No anchors here—only the slow, white drift
Of ghosts in transit,
Scattered by a wind that has no home.
They are not dreams; they are the debris of light,
Gathering mass until they bruise to gray.
They don’t whisper freedom—they demand the sun,
Tearing at the edges of the horizon
Until the gold leaks out and drowns the world.
Time doesn't flow silently here;
It burns in the shift of a shadow,
In the way a mountain of vapor
Vanishes before the eye can name it.
We watch from the mud,
Waiting for the sky to remember our names,
While the clouds keep moving,
Indifferent to the earth they shade.
B