Soul’s Hues
Stretch your hands, hear them click;
Hold the brushes, against the canvas hear them squeak.
Gently gently, listen to the sound of your souls
And let the tapestry and music take you above your imaginations
Probably even my voice can help the source in your mind flick.
Life is, life is not a bed of roses
But I can slash my brush against my canvas and red will be your noses
As they draw mountains like those of Egypt's pyramids;
You paintings priced above mids.
Life is, life is yet a bed of roses.
Sequels, I can always paint one from pictures,
My canvas a belly ready for the semens of my paint's colors.
Don't you feel the rush in your veins
When you feel the nape of your neck cranes
Because like a mother you have created an entity-
An entity in the form of your soul's entirety?
Regal me with your voice,
Humor me with your sauce,
Carry me, pray tell, to the depths of my being;
Like a mountain, my brush is atop seeing
Even the lines that my soul had no perception of foreknowing.
Who am I? I am an amateur
Yet a profound artist.
I spiral in and out of blues
Craning and spilling on canvas - hues
So many colors that sometimes feel misused
But look again, I am a prodigy
For since my mother's womb
My womb has known ancient, dusky rivers
And my soul dwells in the splash and flight of my soul's canvas.
©Iyere Perpetual
