palettes

spirit relegated to the rafters, looking on
without comment at all
that goes on
without it.

are we alone? here in a crowd in
a box, feeling lost feeling
watched; observed, keenly aware
of Being never being
seen before.

a certain movement in my heart, slipped
between palettes of
time where Time stacks moments
high.

just behind:

an artist has been painting
one canvas only, for longer than
shadow-long memory.
old and still old-ing, yet
green-inspired every morning,
he paints a new vision,
one on top of the last, behind
the stacks, pure and focused,
paint layers thick and
thick and bubbled back.

passion rises and doubles - peerless and alone,
anon, in long courageous. juxtaposed to wave red
lengths: anguish. ill-immune to despair's pointed
bouts of self doubt. the thick paint on his brush subject
to judgment even through a steady relentless press of
spirit brushing up close against the
So Sacred in simple color
set over color over night drying,
time from its depths before time stacked high.
can you hear it? beauty's quiet geology; its
fission, tectonic and crack.

ancestral layers, with the new, chip and scatter to
his touch - the canvas itself
distressed, slack
and worthless, yet
still,

he is there and
he continues.