A painter cannot paint the color of sound
Nor the dreams of a white-washed town
Can he see the face of the gentle winds
Echoing thru mountains as darkness begins?
`~ ~ ~ ~
Can he color the words that were stolen in time?
Whispered incantations without reason or rhyme
Weaving hints of lore from mouth to ear
Can he paint the things that only God can hear?
~ ~ ~ ~`
Can he scan dark oceans with palettes of blue?
Or paint a blank face wearing earrings of dew
Can he sketch the scent from things now hidden?
Nestled in a trunk forever locked and forbidden
`~ ~ ~ ~
Remember my friend; it's in the mind's eye
Where yellow memories wave as fields of rye
His hands begin to move inside a world of things
Watch closely my friend as he splashes ~~ eye scenes
