The bench was green and pickered with rust.
We were shackled up against a rail
The air was sweet with song, the choral masters of the forest
serenading the tribulations between the lovers.
Thick paint never understood our emotion,
the realness of our life springing from the canvas.
"Oh capture us our wonderful creator. Your majestic hand rouses us", we cry aloud.
An existence inhabiting one's own imagination .
A memory, a dream, a poem - what a sensual snare the monotony of life can be,
The bench was green and pickered with rust,
Yet we lay on it and laughed,
And as the summer rain poured down
the paint disolved and reality was captured.
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