I want to paint,
a silent, silver moon seeping through the streets, covering shadows like a star against the night sky,
the distance between intelligent invaders and brave battlers’ swords clashing together,
the taste of perfect peaches, taste bud tickling.
I want to paint
a garden blinding you with colour like the brightest rainbow,
a piece of cheese rotting at the back of the fridge as fast as a cheetah can run,
the sound of boats crashing like rocks exploding.
I want to paint the sunset like dying flames.
I want to paint the smell of acrid smoke drifting through the air.
I want to paint the clock ticking as fast as Usain Bolt.
I want to paint the end of this poem.