As It Is

Somedays, I dream.

I dream with the world at my feet,

brush in hand.

Colors splattered,

running across every page

all in the palm of my hand.

Everything.

Somedays, I wonder.

Wandering thoughts of a better place.

Broken strings fixed to play

a gentler tune,

clean edges

painted with loving care.

Breathtaking.

Somedays, I know.

I know those sanded edges

would be flawless,

refined to perfection

softer, kinder

but looking back,

walking unfamiliar paths

paint drying underfoot,

I know it wouldn't be home.