To paint a world where angels fear to tread,
never flows from violence, being messy or just “nice”.
It’s a place that’s full of choices and denial,
A place where encounters are very wild:
-the wonder of a passion still unknown,
-the glory of a stretching that stills my dread.
-the insight of a wandering wounded child,
-the brokenness of a lover left in ice.
There is a place of delicacy that’s fragile,
the slightest breath will leave it wrecked and strewn in a pile.
There is a glen of quiet that brings a hush while sub-sonic rumbles turn the dust to mush.
When sight is opened to the sky, and light bedazzles so that squints the eye,
when laser’s flash destroys the insight plain, and rips out fragments of retinas frame.
In a time that shifts and twists the plane, so knowing present shifts with future’s past.
If only once there would be a pause, in all the hell bent noisy rush.
Then I would surely paint, a place of life, of freshness and desire,
where angels fear to tread!
Author – Bill Tidsbury