The Scarlett Locket

The wind in the city

moves quickly.

My feet can only try to keep up

with the ballet of traffic.

Is it natural for the mind to

dance the streets

until it roams the finest

halls of art ?

I think I see you

in ripples of rain puddles

and renaissance clouds.

Both so minuscule in the scheme of things

but grand to me.

When I’m spilling paint all over downtown

whatever this is becomes crystal-

so damn clear

like the droplets of rain that didn’t ask-

they just landed on my hand.

‎

You know my head is intimately a mess.

Water from the purest clouds couldn’t wash it away.

I just can’t get my mind to think of anyone else.