the primary colors

[indie]

Fields of daffodils
A swaying breeze,
The painter sits and contemplates
The lazy, hazy day.
His paintbrush carefully dipped
As he paints the air
Sweet with honey.

Far away, a sullen girl
Knees drawn up to chest,
Hums a berating song
Of broken heart
And all that will never be.
The calm under her oblivion cracks;
She breaks and falls through ice.

Further still . . .
His flashing eyes and down-turned
Mouth and clenched fists and
White knuckles and the veins on
His forehead and the flush of his
Face and the snarl of his breath
And the steam from his body and
His stance is pure fire.

[Geoff]

Interesting. The way the stanza rhythm migrates as it progresses.

Traditionally it shouldnt work, but in practice it does.

-Geoff

[Sackanaka]

I agree with Geoff; also like to applaud the command of words to induce the moods of each stanza-world.