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Description
The plain exhibit on display
moves my heart,
jostles it out of place;
though simple strokes of
muted colors reign -
spotted with primes most gay,
the painting draws me closer
grappling for my attention in dismay.

A steel-gray power plant
stacked like a house of cards
with little gray cups propped
up on its top, stout against
the ruddy brick tower
overseeing the lot as the
smoke rises up from those
tiny gray cups,
obscuring that tower as if
someone has taken a bite
just to see how it tastes.

Minuscule minions congregate
to the left of the steely creature,
duplexes and houses
muted browns, reds, whites
with pointed roofs of slate
excepting the grand mansion -
clay-like and tiered with
a teal top; all of it
slightly obscured by sparse
trees that have long forgotten
their leaves and
bedded down for winter.

The street lies ahead of them
with its mesh of toy cars
bumping along their way -
as if I could reach out my hand
and pluck them from their feet,
leaving passengers screaming
as they fly through the air.

Hidden in plain view sits
the garage stacked like a
concrete cake - low fat,
for the gaps within make
it fluffy and light; more
toy cars frost the top white
with tiny flecks of red sprinkles
and itty-bitty lights inside
make a splendid taste indeed.

Twin robots stare bleakly
at the landscape, their
backs turned from the
power plant like children
throwing a fit; they stand
unmoving to the left of the cake -
upset that they cannot taste
its delicious icing and
devour the spaces whole.

Before them lies a park
with concrete paths -
serpentine twists that
seem to strangle each other,
locked in a deadly battle
and the less threatening paths
of straight lines that
crosshatch each other every
now and again.

Patches of dull, green grass
fill the gaps of those paths -
the scene of geometric figures
so unnatural in nature;
more prickly trees align
themselves like troops preparing
for battle...if only they
could reach the cranberry
hill - striped twice around
its middle and balding
at its crown.

White, bulbous lights
track the paths with their
predator-like gaze,
obeying orders dished out
by the jenga-block obelisk
enthroned before them all -
its crown an empty lily
pointed towards the sky.

I stare, amazed at the
moving painting before my eyes
taking all of it in -
the whole scene, all of it
resting under a canopy of
cold, gray clouds...

Description
The plain exhibit on display
moves my heart,
jostles it out of place;
though simple strokes of
muted colors reign -
spotted with primes most gay,
the painting draws me closer
grappling for my attention in dismay.

A steel-gray power plant
stacked like a house of cards
with little gray cups propped
up on its top, stout against
the ruddy brick tower
overseeing the lot as the
smoke rises up from those
tiny gray cups,
obscuring that tower as if
someone has taken a bite
just to see how it tastes.

Minuscule minions congregate
to the left of the steely creature,
duplexes and houses
muted browns, reds, whites
with pointed roofs of slate
excepting the grand mansion -
clay-like and tiered with
a teal top; all of it
slightly obscured by sparse
trees that have long forgotten
their leaves and
bedded down for winter.

The street lies ahead of them
with its mesh of toy cars
bumping along their way -
as if I could reach out my hand
and pluck them from their feet,
leaving passengers screaming
as they fly through the air.

Hidden in plain view sits
the garage stacked like a
concrete cake - low fat,
for the gaps within make
it fluffy and light; more
toy cars frost the top white
with tiny flecks of red sprinkles
and itty-bitty lights inside
make a splendid taste indeed.

Twin robots stare bleakly
at the landscape, their
backs turned from the
power plant like children
throwing a fit; they stand
unmoving to the left of the cake -
upset that they cannot taste
its delicious icing and
devour the spaces whole.

Before them lies a park
with concrete paths -
serpentine twists that
seem to strangle each other,
locked in a deadly battle
and the less threatening paths
of straight lines that
crosshatch each other every
now and again.

Patches of dull, green grass
fill the gaps of those paths -
the scene of geometric figures
so unnatural in nature;
more prickly trees align
themselves like troops preparing
for battle...if only they
could reach the cranberry
hill - striped twice around
its middle and balding
at its crown.

White, bulbous lights
track the paths with their
predator-like gaze,
obeying orders dished out
by the jenga-block obelisk
enthroned before them all -
its crown an empty lily
pointed towards the sky.

I stare, amazed at the
moving painting before my eyes
taking all of it in -
the whole scene, all of it
resting under a canopy of
cold, gray clouds...