The Paint Can

Can the canvas be candy painted when the can of paint is candy?

I stick my finger in and swirl it around… A bucket of pigmented liquid.  Mixing.  Sticking the other piggies in, and next thing I know I’ve got my fist in.  Opening and closing.  Halting and flowing.  The fractured rainbow stains my hand with its essence and simplicity of delight is my only response.  I pull a fistfull of color out, out of the color my flesh stands it ground, batting well against the pitchers mound, mounting up on the ladder to darken the sky and add some grey to the clouds.  I fling my hands towards the sky and a rainbow appears- another fling and history rewrites itself.  There is no passion in the blowing wind, just a passionate blowing by of the ever blowing sin, it steals my breath, breath heavy til it drops… and the earthquake rattles my ladder and knocks my socks off.  Balance misplaces itself, and my body begins to drop… last desperate clutch at the ladder’s top, but it just scars my hand and I Mufasa fall.  The paint can falls.  It’s internal organs spreading across the grass- I splatter it wildly around as I land, and as I lay sprawled on my back I have a revelation.

Changing the world makes sense in one lane, but success is only guaranteed if you have another on track.

**

~The Wordsmith

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