In the Back of the Mind

There he sat
His brushes scattered here and there
Paints strewn about the floor
The canvas is still empty
But so are his lonely eyes

Broken bones beaten into each other
Hammered into place
A pain of mending one's self without
Spare hands causes wounds to
Open rather than
Heal

Blacks mixing in blues
The slanted floor sends them
Sliding slowly towards his shoes
Screaming his state of mind

A sponge with laces
They absorb the paint
Soaking in the poison
Guzzling it down

Each step he takes
Forces it out
Dripping from the seams
One squish of discomfort at a time

Eyes of wonder
Obsessed with the sight
Digging deeper into his
Empty eyes

He searches high
And searches low
Looking for his lady
Covered in snow

Desert cheeks
Hurricane minds
Opposites don't attract

Both are buckets full of
Nothing
Filling an awkward silence

The paints begin to dry
Crusting along the edges
No longer of any use

His canvas is still empty
With eyes that aren't any
Better
Poor little fellow
Some days he just wishes that
He had never met her