Waiting for Daybreak
Sometimes the paint brush runs dry.
And the art stops beating.
Thoughtless sepia canvases lie awake;
Like songs that died on your tongue.
Old paintings are like old friends whom you run into after many years
They just look, smell and taste different.
You never quite know what to do with them.
So I gave her a wash in aquamarine and a breath of the sea,
Laced her up with a simple kiss, and placed her on my wall
And she slapped me back to life.