Sunday, 3 June 2007

Patterns in time

He drew, since always, but he drew on ground that was wet with the smell of soaked mud. She drew too, what he drew; but her art was wavy and shades of black.
Each rain he stepped out onto a barren piece of land and sketched lines of purpose, lines that promised time. She sat a distance and drew lavish visions of gray. His seat by the river was her haven, only the colour of leaves changed. Lines burried deeper into snow as he walked to a promise. Lines burried deeper as she lingered to a hope.
His road back was blurry. The promise of time eroded his purpose.
She feared that she drew better.


  1. Interesting read so far. Lovin' your 'Sometimes' post.

    Take care.

  2. Well, trying to keep it interesting...

  3. The subtle nuances of imagery in your works is quite fascinating.