the past is a robin's egg

the first robin of the morning signals cheerily with only a half eaten orange as his witness,
 

his anthem made pleasant to the early morning listener’s ear,
 

plucking strings of a viola’s fresh harmony to accompany the violin’s stagnant melody of life.
 

a newly painted painting is washed over with watered down colored songs, muted and forlorn.

a tree sits on the canvas, deserted and lonely, under a sweep of onyx dome and robin splatter painted egg whites.

the metaphor and significance is no longer tangible,
 

as it sits higher and higher above my Sense,

less and less tangible,

half tilted, half glued to the wall,

i wonder if it had actually meant anything at all.





 

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