Someone paints the imagination,
The shape of color is in thought.

How it feels, or how it felt then,
My heart will see the shaped image.
It’s taking the thought, looking at it,
Differently to the colors like in roses,
Or the mountains that stand out, beyond.

And now, you are my imagination,
You are the one, now standing out.

Within it is only what is to be filled,
Paintings, motionless in art, brushed.
Someone will cry for the art of emotion,
Tangled between a line that will fall, drawn,
Knowingly I hope, that it’s not I that falls too.

©2007, Ron Globe