A certain whiteness — just before
my thoughts are caged
inside the borders glow:
It’s perfect in my mind.
When world is still compressed,
as gravity of air; it’s luminous,
pulsating with the possibility:
my room is still a beast,
yet in the stillness just before
growling with demands,
It eats my voice.
I hear the sound of wings
as colors fade to dust.
My ink has dried again.
Today I have the prompt at toads, and we are writing something from the same picture.
When I watched the picture I see two possibilities, the before when the artist tries to gather courage to start to create on an empty canvas, or it’s a finished painting he admires. I went with the first possibility, as I saw the artist hiding from that glow of an empty canvas. The empty canvas is almost like a hungry beast.