Painting and Poems.

Mommy can we paint?
Later son.
The poetry
Flows
Where a young
Man grows
Weary of
Wandering
And arms
Outstretched
Through this
Web of
Ones
And zeroes
Heroes
Emerging
From wings
Onto darkened
Stage
Glinting steel
Armoured and armed
Perfect
For the
Puppet master’s
Play.
Later my son
We paint,
Not today.
Today we create
From cinders
And Ash
What tomorrow
Will come
To stay
At last.

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