A Painting of a Tree
My imagination streaks a picture of a presence in a fashion as idealistic as luminescent light illuminating this coffee shop. I chain myself to the acknowledgement that idealism is only oils coated behind biased perception, playing behind eyes that saw too much anyway.
I’d see intermingling branches when I’d peer above myself, not in the crude, harsh interaction of wood against wood, but instead the content, interweaving leaves of adjoining stagnancy. The energy emitted from those arms, trudging in equally submissive unison, interjects the preset tension of external qualms, gentle coating my hands and softening my fingertips. I do not see roses growing from the cracks in the pavement, nor do I see colors drenching the blown up advertisements crowing our heads. But, accepted obscurity, adjoined challenges, defaulted respect, I do see, and each hint of our positivity strips away the debris from my chest, the warmth melting the remaining grains of past ignorance.
Let fate set a gilded frame on the solidity before our roots into which we can rest, not for the world to perceive but instead, to lock us in place, to ensure us into a proximity in which you can see my every flaw, every imperfection to the stitch of my skin. Though that which makes me human looms like a blotch of ink on the corner of your glasses, our quarrels can be dismissed as imperfections as well. These marks that taint the space between us make us as human as we are.
But our humanity only catalyzes the rest, only prints the blank sheets of looseleaf upon which we will both drag the pen. Abandon predeterminations, misconstrued romanticism. Just speak, and let speak, as the birds that lie on our interwoven branches do the same.