He paints; over and over
the perception his colours brightened
day in and day out.
Empty bottles in a rainbow trail,
it appears a naughty child’s playroom,
till the canvas thickened
with the blending of his lonely ways
and life juice of unknown faces.
The expressions of their life
rode through his face
as he sketched, rather as he etched,
each thread with his brush strokes,
joyous lightning flashing his fuller eyes.
Here’s another picture -
he slides down the wall
all thoughts gone astray,
the same eyes, so vacant,
like a distant lighthouse
watching ships wrecking themselves under darkened skies;
his figure drowning in shock as he pictured
the obtrusive end of his temporal hero.
He could only paint their lives
on canvases with colours overlapping.
Those tranquil moments now past
he watches, content,
with a cup of steaming coffee beside him.
His face mirrors the thought,
so lost in the world he perceived,
that he loaded the canvas with
until the realness of the world he so carved
branded his portrayal -
“That’s what they call art”- and a smirk.
