mortality

Winter through the eyes of spring, summer through autumn's eyes I would like to paint to warn me of the faint swing of death' scythe-the debut of his aura thrives amongst those ready to be born in heaven's birthing pools. The ghost train arrives in this rest home to pick up the newly deceased,in my eyes in the panes I see death painting me seasonally, he shuffles the seasons from glass to glass, he passes through a dream to breathe and blow guiding flakes of snow through four seasons across to the threshold of an artist's window. Before my brushes forever dry I will find my signature snow flake in winter's wind.