pigmented fragments of thought coalesce,
irresistible to one another
through force of will,
yet they resist the patterned constraint of canvas,
as it is not enough for this imagination.
The bleak space in his Art screams for
as the insatiable night devours:
fevered thoughts, paint, hope, Truth, breath,
life, sex, being, soul, palette and brush,
until there is nothing left, save the stars
and a fevered ache of spent passion, now dissipated.
So he rests.
Not justified, and certainly not satisfied,
but, ultimately, he is pacified
by release’s comforting place.
His canvas is the sky,
she, his Earth,
and the tension between them both,
is where he stands.
For Magpie Tales: http://magpietales.blogspot.co.uk/2014/08/mag-234.html