I went to an art museum for one of my finals. There was an exhibit showcasing many famous art pieces related to gardens, mainly Monet, some Matisse. There were two Van Goghs that I fell in love with immediately. As part of the final, we had to write something in response to what we saw in the art hall. But I was stuck. I wrote a few crappy poems.
Then, the next morning I woke too early to function and wrote two prose poems. I don't write poetry. I don't consider myself a poet. But these poems wouldn't let me sleep. Because after I penned them, I went back to sleep perfectly fine. Here's what I wrote.
We swing among the branches of a tree that cascades green over the world. A fountain of leaves and vines. My feet graze the grass below the canopy of eaves as I grasp the vines and circle the thick trunk. Around and around, the branches twist over and over across my wrists and palms until I'm tangled in a crisscross net of green strings. But you... you soar above the world of green, gently wrapping yourself in a smooth cocoon of leaves and eaves. My feet hit the ground, jerk to a stop by the weight of my body. You unravel toward me, whispering, "Let's leave the weeping to the willow tree." And your eyes left me from gravity's graces until we're both caught in the tangle of the willows.
A World on Fire
The bridge hovers amidst a swirling storm of emerald and burnt orange. A glossy smear flickers the canvas into a wave of mystical fire and smoke. But there are shadows of reds--angry and passionate--and black--mysterious and dangerous. Vigilante color screaming into the dark streets of abandonment. Because it's not the brushstrokes that matter or how visible the bridge appears; it's not about the simmering shades or the time it took to get this far. It's about how it makes you feel. How the rage of fire forces you off the edge of a building to punch pavement and skulls until your hands are battered and dripping with the swirling storm of color. Until all you can see are the reds and blacks of a bridge on fire, of oil and canvas, of a world on fire, of chemicals and blindness.