July Picture
The Moon's disc of an orange colour
an' unmoved clouds look like a fringe –
there hangs a July midnight picture
and twinkles on the walls the dark.
Where are you, our unseen artist?
While never-ending supplication
you put a canvas on your easel,
unheard invisible creator.
You're here after day's disorder
establish beauty in the world –
you ever take bright colours softly
and throw them into emptiness.
As if it is a fortune's hostage –
a prisoner waits for his death –
at the eternity there stands the tripod,
there shines the Moon, and wax there burns.
Copyright © Oleg Borisov | Year Posted 2009
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment