drought

i am staring at this blank canvas

should i draw or write anything

the fire’s no longer warm as it was

when you took what i always bring.

lines and shades dont blot on paper

ideas had gone to far and dark places

no more words, rhymes, and letters

pencils and pens write none but spaces.

i was the fireplace on a winter night

you took the matches away with you

before you could even give me light

and left me alone, so cold and blue.

once a painter of hands and pockets

colored on canvas a head and heels

left with a broken heart and palette

when you took your name out your sleeves.

i am staring at this blank canvas

should i draw or write anything

i hope the fire will be warm as it was

and always bring just good dreams.