Standing on three legs, precariously
You slip down slowly
At the periphery of my vision
Until you lean forward
Bowing on one leg
Unhurried, a deliberate performance
One last dip and you
Fall, crashing
To the ground
S. Leigh
I am not used to an easel. I bend over, sketchbook on my lap, on the table. The hunching over with a Valentine pencil in August.
She balanced the incomplete painting on the easel; however, gusts of wind made painting a challenge. She ended up leaning back in her chair and placing her foot on the canvas, and painting around her toes, and in the painting, her toes ending up as strange looking bush.
Chanpheng
The wood had long since splintered, still offering what little strength it had left to hold canvas. Creaking in distress when pushed in creation.
Standing on three legs, precariously
You slip down slowly
At the periphery of my vision
Until you lean forward
Bowing on one leg
Unhurried, a deliberate performance
One last dip and you
Fall, crashing
To the ground
I am not used to an easel. I bend over, sketchbook on my lap, on the table. The hunching over with a Valentine pencil in August.
She balanced the incomplete painting on the easel; however, gusts of wind made painting a challenge. She ended up leaning back in her chair and placing her foot on the canvas, and painting around her toes, and in the painting, her toes ending up as strange looking bush.
The wood had long since splintered, still offering what little strength it had left to hold canvas. Creaking in distress when pushed in creation.