Because of my hesitant sort of love affair with using paint as a medium.
A Line of Paint
There is something
about the glide of a brush across a canvas,
the smooth glide of creation
where there was nothing before.
An indelible mark easily smudged
by the mere wipe of a rag corner
changeable, as easily a glaring retribution
as a wet, glistening line
where your mind has kissed the canvas
and run its tongue along the bare back
where possibility lay.
The sensual embodiment of a thought
in the mere stroke of a hand,
The shiver down a spine of bristles under paint –
that’s a touch that’s hard to prepare for,
that leaves you burnt and angry when you can’t do it right.
Quill Aquiver 