Brushstrokes In My Brain

O these times
These lonely, lonely times
Of a single tear falling
From a broken, crooked eye
For the meadows sunk in shadow
And shadows that each day die
On the tar road turning homewards
To pink hearts falling from the sky
O these people quietly standing
Waiting that single boat of hay
Here are lovers with their children
And servants with silver tray
All waiting to be carried
Somewhere in the ocean
Where faces are not of plastics
And even fishes have emotion
O these homes are now softly falling
Like snow on winter’s eve
Left faded to fill a dry canvas
With damp colors smelling new
And there is no one to wake the silence
And no one to hold the door
Only brushstrokes that breath to say
We are here for you are not anymore