By Raymond S.
My eyes asked as I looked upon the ceiling.
The mustard spread above my head, it beckoned my evaluation.
The colour a result of many years smoking, a reflection of the lungs of those who smoked.
A yearning to begin, stifled by many a past prevarication, stirred in my mind and followed through in my chest.
At least I didn’t waste my time, I prepared for the fateful day.
Bought a brush here, acquired the paint there but now there’s no putting off the event.
Ease the lid, dip the brush. Stroke after stroke whitewashes the problem away..?