Strokes

The painter's hands once caressed the sky in electric blues,

now the canvas portrays angry jabs of half-hearted hues-

a spoke of wheels and broken dreams,

short circuit bursts of silent screams.

What do you see, mother, what are you trying to say?

 Words tumble and betray, but eyes of liquid, you do convey-

the painter of pastels is denied access to who she used to be,

she now lives among strangers bonded to the same destiny.

In silence we sit, hold hands, and lose the day

heart's illusions of matter are now painted in gray. 

*Magpie Tales, 102