The Perfect Painting
I'm searching
deep, into the abyss of silence
where the eye for detail is sharply seen
keen from this plateau, and giving no edge
to spectrums spilling out
shattering the ice, of a winter-white canvas
where the views may be cold
yet, bold with reaction
Spliced are the colors that stretch out before me
according to shades
red joined to red
blue joined to blue
some which have tangled
mixing the hues
changing the views
from where I once stood
wedged deep in the canyons
eyes drawn to the sky
where the paint flies like a comet
with no place to call home
A view of the ordinary
becomes the exception
my eyes ever arching
to reach for the stars
Someone's hand held a brush
every stroke without thought
just an act of releasing
by far, without reason
where seasons are changed
and strange as it seems
spring blossoms no green
fall sheds not a leaf
sun darkens the summer
and somewhere is winter
For what has no reason
my eyes want to seize
eyes want to see seasons that I've never known
watching it snow, with colors of gold
watching the rain, return to the clouds
Unleashing control.....and letting it go
_________________________________________
Submitted to the Contest: "What is The Perfect Painting?"
5/22/14
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