The painter

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.