Singing she fills the air,
a sweet aria
so softly whistfull
it makes his palms sweat,
his voice thicken.
He is in the land of shades now
offering his life to bring alive
his own longing.
He hurls a single purple cloud
against the sky,
Hovering at the border of his own identity
he is painting words and notes,
spreading music.
When the he is finished
the contour of a final perfect phrase
rests on the stone easel beside her hip.
A small finger of bluelight flickers,
ignites on his tangerine... Van Gogh.
Tags: