I awake at the sound of defeat.
Finding at the bottom of the hill
An injured canvas lying abandoned.
My eyes follow the trail of its pieces
Splattered from the top to the bottom,
Colours gliding gently down
From the tip of a blade onto another.
I turn the painting over, rough skin
Brushing past my fingers, spilt colours
Wrapping around the tips leaving
Dark stains. The details stand out
Like wispy hands cupping my face
Towards the explosion of life
In and around the body, as bright and dark
As summer fireworks at dusk.
Although the rain has ruined you
And the fall has torn you apart
Abandoned and shunned by the wind,
Your colours will always allure
Your pictures are filled with passion
Your stories will lodge in the heart.
You are an art form, a timeless painting
Flawed like the walk of life towards death.
(Note: This poem is a companion poem to 'Anathema', but it can also be read separately.)
YOU ARE READING
Musings
PoetryA book encompassing my brain. Filled with poems, sketch stories and everything in between.
