I’m shivering lightly, on the inside it’s just me.
Through my memories there is someone just like me curled up in a ball.
I think of what this could be.
We are the shadows of our time.
The sinners of the past.
Is our time really worth lasting?
Beauty is a lie to us because we don’t believe.
Your shadow follows the next in the march of the Black Canvas.
Beating drums to make some noise.
The music we play is actually slow.
Can you tell what the rain is saying?
It’s not crying, it’s praying, for the lot of us.
God is watching our tired bodies waiting to wash it clean and dry.
We look like slaves of many tainted colors, with chains around our feet.
Songs are not songs here, they are just different languages.
If we collapse here we give each other a hand.
The clouds are dark, the scent of air like coal mines.
While trying to follow the path we can not see.
The water shows our reflection, but we can’t see ourselves and the tears flow holy from our eyes.
The hated color of ink.
We see the paint brush come down on our Canvas -
another line is added to the white that is left.
We stop - turn to follow each stroke to the end of the line.
The black paint drips from the edge of the Canvas.
It’s scream is heard only by us.
It is “silent” here on our speaking Canvas.
Our Canvas is “blank” with emotion.
BUT
No matter how “silent” or “blank” our Canvas is described to be.
They don’t know what goes on here.
There is a sound here that they don’t know and will never hear.
There is a feeling here that they don’t understand and will never know.
There is something here that we only know.
Our lives are lived in the darkness and no matter how much pain we may seem to face.
We know we’ve been given a mysterious plan.
That we would never replace for another painters mind or hand.
 ~jadesnow~ · Sat May 30, 2009 @ 06:27am · 0 Comments |
