vanishing point


the painter steps
out of her
shoes
steps aside
from the scene
thinks in terms
of what
makes her love
the color of
a man’s skin
as hers lay
guarded
beneath
flannel sheets
pulled up to
his chin
she writes
words of closure
on note paper
imprints her kiss
in ruby lipstick
and tapes it
to the door
i have nothing
else to say
she says
what purpose
does it serve
to whore nature
on a thirty
by twenty canvas
when it has
already been done
for me
in a
brilliant
array of hues
and such an
imaginative play
on words
in more
exacting
arcs and curves
than i myself
would dare
bemuse
i watch
my painted love
peel,crack
and fade
for i have
not shared its
glory i have
not preserved its
lustrous exhibits
its infinite landscapes
and without further
ado
the painter steps
out of the
room steps
into the portrait
of life
blocking out the
rays of sun
with her hands
she wonders what
her beloved
shall think upon
awakening
to find her
gone back to
dreaming
from this unrealistic
state of mind
but nothing seems
to beckon her
return
to the safety
of his chiseled
biceps and
strong earthen hands
instead she seeks
the shelter
of beauty
and adventure
in the wild
she can
no longer live
with seeing the
world from this
side of the
canvas and
the painter steps
out of herself
steps down from
her pedestal
onto the rotten
planks
which overhang
her pond
between contrasting
desires
and shades
of right and
wrong
she slips underneath
the surface
a few
short moments later
admitting
with glassy eyes
to these perpetually
artistic skies
that her art
of imitating their
perfection
was flawed
unto itself.




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