The Falling
Now, I don’t
see fire as much as the rain.
A cloud
tricking down though an artist’s hands
spills heart
across a world laden with ash
where
nothing lights up the world but his brush
I see hope,
fury, and spite together,
yet don’t we
all see what we want to see?
The dripping
of pigment upwards, downwards,
understanding
why they are just the three
Like a
Jackson Pollock crash down landing
on the
surface of a god forsaken
ball of
carbon and dust, these three panels
breathe life
back into black canvas again
The crimson
blood, I see the heart pumping
arterial
spray, Peter D’s passion.
A lost one,
a deep gouge that flows outward
staining his
world till all he sees is red
To the
center of the piece, framed by rage
a Rorschach
bird comes falling from the clouds.
A last call
to the sky, “this is goodbye.”
“I’m letting
go, please calm the heavens down.”
Orange –
small smoldering embers, but not
quite a
fire, just a drop of something more.
A dollop of
flame says, “Keep your temper.”
The period.
The end of a sentence.
So bleed,
and fall, and suck it up again.
Turn it
upside down and soak into the
fabric
beneath you, leaving but a smear.
The paint
may not fall so that it makes sense,
Nor will it
always rise to the senses.
Take what
you can. Always see what you can.
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