Notes of a Painting

Held in porcelain basins, his eyes are holes of pure team splattered with satin sheen gold.

From these reflecting pools, shades of burnt rosewood leathery skin perform spirals of disarray.

His rusted cheeks forever marked by a white hand print, assumed not as a reassurance of love, but of utter hatred for his kind. An abomination is he to this Earth. How dare this Jew admit his existence to such superior a man?

His ears try to shy away under entanglements of auburn curls.

Latching is lined fingers to his temples, caging half the truth, half the story. Of how green streaks now stain his skin as if once an open canvas. Of how dried tears resonate as thin runoff of blood accentuating a prominent nose, forming circles looping in and out of themselves. Of how numbness denotes from his features having been thrown carelessly to muck.

Angels once tickled keys overjoying sounds of sermons to stones in the streets of Vienna as God orchestrated spontaneous harmonic shades with fingers becoming hairs to his brush.

But now, creation has been abandoned.

A lone survivor, gasping.

Licking the blood off his parched lips becomes the taste of vanilla strawberries.

The memories flood.

Of when his father used to carry him on his shoulders along the pier, both filling on ice cream despite the breeze.

Each step was a boom of the boards, each pastel bird reminding him of shelter above a crashing sea, and like the birds, the boards, his parched lips, he is a memory shrunken, ripped, and forgotten.

A sketched outline, whose colors melt, dripping in patterns of overlapping hysteria. His hair taking form of splattered spectrums and his brow shriveling into crimson pain.

A complete deformation into cubit water color and outline displayed naively in the gallery of a modern art collector.

And we ask ourselves, what about the rest?