I
sit in an office, looking at paint, kiln to kiln, and Ghost
to
soul. Magazines chatter of riches, found in an image,
somewhat
disappointed. I would like these things, semi-
engaged,
taking them for granted. Such mystery: “I
want
it, I want it not: Ah, I can live without it.” This is
luxuries,
over-satiated, moving fast in a big body Benz.
I
loved her like a wife, enthralled in pillow talk,
whispering
something soft; but we live and outlive,
remaining
distant spirits. Life is motion, ever in motion,
needing
motion. What happens? Something remarkable!
Motion
moves us towards growth, even love and
marital
vows. Indeed, I sit in an office, scanning portraits,
while
tracing lines. It’s all visual, house upon house, a
wheel
of colors, and cobblestones. In a
present painting,
lines
are forever, running through a woman’s face. Pain
is
palpable, hidden beneath an afro, gazing into more pain.
A
painting has affected soul, streaming into whys, and
pointing
towards neglect. We lost her, screaming into
dungeons,
and jumping jacks. She died before us, and no
one
halted, and no one gave. Our hearts, living in a
background,
daring to tiptoe a frontline. In her wake,
we
raise questions, and rage the injustice. We pierce a
portrait,
where ink’s to bleed, crossed into our fingertips.
There’s
a life, a woman’s life, dead to caring souls. We
mourn
soils, and dig graves, wrestling a full body mirror.
I
see her crying, absent of tears, merely impressions. I
see
her screaming, absent of sound, merely dejection.
Walk
us near, and walk us far—to tell a woman’s story.
I
dream of justice, where a soul could rest, blowing out
the
shadows. Indeed, she breathes in lines and paints,
scorned
by reflection. I hear her, pleading her life; where
hurt
was vivid, an oval and slender face. Eyes are so low,
semi-sedated—we
wonder why!
