The Painter's Wheel

the painter's wheel turns,
its bearings rusted, groan.
all too oft mistaken for thunder.

the human heart has
hidden chambers, and
passageways not discovered...

the smell of hope? or
burning limbs... clearing
the way for autumn.

the heart is at autumn too;
one last flash of color,
and then a time of rest...

what we seek for
is never further than
the tip of trembling tongues,

and the button undone....
the cadence of earth evolving,
both within and without!

poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!