Wandering

Small prints in a dark coal colored mud. Not certain of the destination nor the way to get there, considering there hasn't been determined yet. No shoes, the tracks are clean. Night had fallen some two hours ago or closer. I'm not sure. So far, without a knowing where one is going then hours fade into days and days to weeks. Who knows how long has been spent wandering. A glance back reveils a dark placce. A place that shouldn't be treaded again, yet forward looks the same but, some how, seems brighter. A new place with new things. Perhaps there the wandering ends.

Paint

The color palets, unknown on which to chose, all cans were open. The walls of the house were varied in status. Some walls painted, others started but changed, many half started but never finished. And onthers, the walls that were left blank. No idean, no beginging, a blinding surface of white. What was to become of them? Did they have no soul? Some walls blue, others red, if I recall there is a wall upstairs to the left that is "Grove Orange". So many walls left and undesired, unloved by the painter. Buckets of paint left open as if the walls know themselves enought to pick their color.