A painter’s easel –
Edges smoothened out from lifetime’s use,
– The sharp edges worn over time.
Once showed the concentric lines of woodwork,
Patterns that weaved in and out.
Trees that held these lines,
Must have untold stories,
Held memories of centuries,
That are forever sealed,
In the concentric lines of woodwork,
Now barely visible –
In the smoothened edges of the painters easel.
The colors on the easel,
Little blobs of red, green, blue, purple and others,
Mounds of passion and expression,
Just waiting to erupt.
The colors – now seeping at the edges,
Following the concentric lines of woodwork
Look for each other, Willing each other to join
To form a cryptic rainbow. To express themselves.
The canvas, stretched
Across the wooden frame,
Stretched tightly, pinned at the edges,
Waiting for colors to form,
For expression to be given life.
And for colors to form,
Reveal cryptic colors that tell stories
That until then –
Have been held closely
By the blobs of red, green, blue, purple,
Seeping into each other –
But still held on the easel.
The painter’s hand –
His nails, tearing, misshapen, fraying –
Little specks of color from past expressions
Resting under the nails.
The fingers –
Joint together by trembling hands,
Wait for instruction and action.
The painter sits –
Hunched over his painter’s stool;
Contemplates, struggles, with the canvas –
Considers stories that he could form,
By merely transferring –
The concentric formed circles,
The blobs of paint seeping into each other,
The memories of centuries,
Untold stories –
From the easel to the canvas.
The canvas shines brilliantly white,
It’s expansive emptiness –
Its only purpose is to reflect light,
Streaming on it’s blank facade.
The painter’s story had been told –
The emptiness of his expressions –
Now failed to form,
Never drew lines,
That told previously untold stories.
Now, the painter sits forever still,
Never to move again.
The colors remain forever cryptic –
Joint together randomly with no purpose –
On the easel, never reaching the canvas.