Turpentine

She gave him a painting once,

And that’s when she knew

He couldn’t see -

Not like she does.

The painting began to bleed.

Colours ran off the panel,

Mixed into rain,

And lost finally in the earth

Sinking fast, deep, and completely.

She followed shortly after.

Now awake and hollowed,

She knew where she existed

In a hyphen -

Overwhelmed and blinded -

Somewhere in there,

Between oil and water -

It’s a lonely place.

Stop and smell the roses they say.

Sure, but why do you close your eyes?

Do you notice the Prussian blue, raw umber, lamp black -

scrumbled beneath.

Shaken now, and deflated,

She understood.

Her world had depth, uneven topography,

And a perpetual whirring, behind her eyes,

Like a hum….

Or maybe a heartbeat.

Why can’t they see it?

Feel it

It is Payne’s grey that permeates the sky at dusk.

A blue sky yawning, does not usher in cadmium yellow.

The tinged clouds are not dipped in lemon or emerald green.

Shadows aren’t made of black.

Why do they let their eyes betray them?

Eyes so immature, like cameras -

Click.

Colours don’t pour in together,

They conspire and fall,

Into entropy-

As values change,

intensify, dull,

And implode,

Into innumerable smooth gradations,

Waltzing but a touch apart

Thick over thin, slow over fast,

Meeting each other in pleats and folds.

And only in that split second,

Did the pigments finally choose to rest.

On a tapestry,

Much too deep and thick to hang on a wall,

And growing still.

Can you see it now?