My fingers tell a story as they run

Sprinting across the paper

Skimming the white just enough

To leave marks across the white.

When I create I am all alone

Dancing to my own song

My own voice

My own rhythm

Of some unseen drum.

Can you see what I see?

Can you look inside my world?

My world of dictionary pages stained with ink

and canvas boards matted on black matts.

Can you hear what I hear?

The thump of a fan, slam of a door,

croak of a locust outside my window.

Can you smell what I smell?

Dogs and old books,

dust mites and dry watercolor.

Walk a mile in my shoes,

My worn out Rocket Dogs made of canvas 

and sewn back together with love and white thread.

My steps are small and unsure,

Unsure of where they are headed.

Then again, who isn't?