I'm going down a road. I'm going towards that place. The place I always knew in dreams, but to where I could not get. I always dreamed of how it would be to reach that destiny. To touch the painter's face. He'd dance with cotton candy eyes and the loveliest dark hair. I swear I always knew him since so long ago. He never held my hand. He always had to go. I wondered about his waistcoat, all speckled, orange, brown. He seemed to disappear in smoke into the nearby town. I looked alert, fascinated, a bit disturbed, intrigued.
Why could I not reach past the straight Mecatina iceberg lilac trees? They were not cold to the hands and they seemed almost alive. I reached out with my fingertips and tried to make them smile. I couldn't see the town that time. I hope I'll see it now. Some say it is the devil, in his own eternal realm. I don't care for fairy tales and I don't care for follies. The silver brushed trail of line the artist left seemed to just beguile me. The artist was most interesting and he had a face. A face I still remember. Will I make it to that place? It has a name, I know it well, though the words I could not pronounce. I couldn't even spell for you the letters fully out aloud. Could I even say one symbol? Can I even say one sound? Is the name a pro-verb, or is the name a noun? If you could see this place I know that in, no one seems to reside, but how am I one to know? I've never been inside. I've tried and tried to catch the artist. I know his scent and smell. I think I may have almost touched him once, but then he jumped down the well.
One needs a boulder to go down into that crab lined cave, but I still was very small. To be separated from the artist I always sought to gain. I knew I could not carry the weight inside my burlap sack. So, I put the boulder down and then I started back. The road, the road, the road it leads to this portrait place. Will I become the artist next? Who else will know this race? The race to find the artist. The race itself and space.
The gentle roar of diamond swallows rise in the morning air. To hear their sound, to hear the music, it was like a marching band. If you were to read a newspaper I doubt you'd read it well. For if this hell as you say, it simply would burn down. The town itself it is not cold, but neither is it hot. I have not been inside it, but have thought of it since I was a simple tot. Young dreams and lovely wishes looking at ceiling stars. They glowed in holographic to the world where I'd been barred. If I were to talk to the mocking bird, he wouldn't make a sound. The artist is the one who speaks to him and rides his colors round.
If I could be the artist, then who would follow me? Would I be all alone in the unearthly seams? The seams of woven wonders, though I hate to tell. The truth that is of fairy tales. The wonder that is spells. Though, for me, I am not a child now. So I can walk away. Without someone to stop me. I can't be made to stay. I'm free to go where I want now and though I may walk alone. I still seek to find the artist and make that town my home. As I mentioned quite before I still do not know its name. If I were the artist, would he stay the same? For all I know about this man is all I have to tell. I know the artist's folly. It is also inside myself. Am I actually the artist? Time will only tell. If this is what is so, then this whole time I have chased after myself.