Canvases

Fri, 05/31/2013 - 23:19 -- Nich

Location

78228
United States
29° 27' 19.2204" N, 98° 33' 40.0104" W

Have you ever breathed life
In to a few letters,
So artfully
They jumped off
The paper?

Imagine all the scores,
And leagues,
And unfathomable
Multitudes-
A plethora of pages
That stand on top
Of the shoulders of giants
That stand on top of the shelves
Of library veins and cells,
Cases of bodies of works;
Caskets revealing cadavers...
Suddenly brimming with vitality so forthright
And bold- audacious- that there's no hope
Of turning a blind eye to the spectacle!

Painting canvases of dancing words,
Sailboating away to secure treasure
X-marked in your conscience
With the ambitions
Of pirates
To capture vessels
Of pure Spanish silver-
I analogize to the seizing
Of your attentions,
Oh-so precious time-
And lay siege to
Bastions built on
Slumber soil
That nary a man
Tills for produce,
Nor harvests
And cultivates
Or toils for
Such precious gold.

Such illustrations crafted well
With the romances of yester-years
In their flowing blood,
Their ink runs off and bleeds
Sweet silence in the night sky
(Something few are akin to)
And swells in the fibers
So saturated
That their meaning rots through
And soaks into- embedding
The once raw wood on the table
With manifest intent,
And spreads and smears
And smudges and sullies
One single scrawl
Until only the raw truth remains-
For designs and fancies and
Masks lied within the
Polite first bow that the script took
Will all disappear with
A single swipe of the dragging hand.
Leaving solitary honest penmanship.

Birthing earnest poetry.

And who was the progenitor
To prodigal pieces running amok
The placid and unaroused, aloof brain?
And who was the artisan
That molded the cast
Their children so dutifully settled in?
And who was the forger
Of all these little tin soldiers
Waging war against the contemporary?

It was I,
With a simple canvas,
Pursuing the dream of
Creation and
Oblivion and
Permanence and
Inconstancy,
That struck up
These monuments and pillars.
That I should build myself
A garden of marble statues,
Of past relics and new impressions
For all to see.

It was I.
The latter:
Why.

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