My Voyage Through Time

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Hue less swirls submerge into the mist,

greeting absent traces of what exists.

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Murky shades of the bluest grays,

freeze on order and then fade away.

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An artist’s stroke is monochrome,

colorless, creativity is gone.

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Shady lines separate before brush can touch.

Strokes distance themselves from color crutch.

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Dreary are the dark willows which weep.

Acrylic floats above but into canvas seeps.

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Insipidness, fingers are cold.

Canvas is mine to have and hold.

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Secluded under constrained layers,

talent faded now by a dream slayer.

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A missing swirl drips into the mist,

leaving absent traces of what exists.

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by Felicia Lujan _7.2.2012

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