Author Information
The Painter
Folder:
Poetry Left standing, left looking old and tired upon a river of fire and ink
The horizon in white lines passes by, delicate as glass
Corner of one eye, a tree, that in years has long passed me
Sturdy with roots, but rotting wood
Branches thin as bones that will break with wind
Sad reflective river, I watch as my soul flickers out like the last light in a house of sin
Corner of other eye, only white
Such vision I have today, this dying tree or the fires of my pain, my soul
Suddenly to the other eye, a giant brush of golden light streaks down from the delicate silence of stars
I try to run for this meadow opening before me, but can't move a single muscle
Am I the tree? Am I rooted to the dirt?
But no, my vision I can move
I see my withered legs
My tired feet
But can not
Move them
What prison is this!
Why can't I scream?
I am given a mind to ramble within my head
I am given a tree to see my future, my death
I am given a river to watch my sin float by in flames
But a body with which I have no control?
Not even strings?
The other eye tries to close. Wishing only for darkness, but can only watch.
The women looks at her painting, smiling at her creation, and puts down the brush.
