Painting Alone
He is himself a painting,
Sitting there on a painters stool upon the cliff's edge
jutting out over a vista to the envy of gods
where the skies reach down to touch, to but experience
this view to capture the soul,
Where one could but look into the distance
to drift across the world and savor it’s every pleasure
and forever be free:
With but a look,
And he is himself a painting
this man who sits with brush in hand, and like a shipwrecked sailor
parched and dying of thirst
sees before him ocean waters of crystal blue and honey dew
and cups in his hands a depthless morsel
raises it to yearning lips
to drink from the ocean,
Just so - this man he lifts his brush
and with every stroke
his parched tongue laps up the sweetest drops of honeyed milk
as indulgent brush laps along the canvas
and paint sinks deep into every pore
This man, he drinks the ocean;
Yet he is himself the painting
and when he is done, when his throat is sated
He picks up yon coveted ocean
and tosses it over the picturesque cliff-
down and down it tumbles...
..to crack and shatter upon a mountain of like paintings
and this man, who is he himself the painting
is a man alone with his scenery
A man alone, and he paints for no one
and this picture, this lone man with none to savour his plight
Sends his brush and his soul over the vista
and drowns in the ocean.
Copyright © Samir Georges | Year Posted 2011
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