Nothing New

To lay one line against another to bend and curve them, this escapes me. To fill a space with color or to set a scene within a frame and lay lights and shades across it all, this escapes me. To bend the air and ripple it with sound or to even think it in my head, this escapes me. To remove some mass from here or there and place it back again, yes, all these things escape me. But don't suppose that when they are, that I don't understand. I can see in every scene and every sound the pieces that are me and some pieces that are you. Don't suppose that since I don't loiter there that I don't understand. I know all these lines and curves hard pressed in every page. Every color that has caressed the canvas every pixel on the screen all the notes and rhymes and forms born from the mind. That it's done for and from all that thing inside. Still, have no worries over my respects I only did not pay, for I know that my cheap currency is of little worth in all this place that’s you.