In Progress

It crests
The expression
Wry, melancholy
Settled, yet unsettled in the eyes
Of pretty, lonely women
But what you do
In private sights
Is open
Not just yourself
With subtle words
Mosaic menageries
But the prize itself
Two figures holding
Whether one live or dead
Past or future
Now like old oil studies
Crammed detail
Grain in ink scratch
Applied to your style
Those figures fortified
With stone castle or heartwood
I saw my own forest
And still cannot handle
Sharing or believing another
Actually understands the canopy
If only I had words
For what terms and runic curves cannot capture
Sweeping the missing white
As a vision comes
From your hands to my eyes.

Join the struggle and the joy to look at what your hands are dreaming.
By J.W.H. Hobbs.

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