A sudden look grants the painting to be monochromatic.
Black, white. Not even varied shades of gray.
Just one or two at most.
Of the darkest nimbus clouds,
A tub of water polluted with a single drop of dark ink.
It makes you feel gloomy….full of apprehension.
Because you know it’s going to rain.
And you wait, wait, wai…
The clouds huddle together as closely as a cluster of buds,
Trussed together in a bouquet.
Trapped in one of the claustrophobic folds of a
Tight shut flower bud,
Where it is so dark.
The darkness enters your nostrils,
Fills your mouth.
Shoved down your throat.
The darkness chokes the bronchus, bronchioles.
Full of dense, dense darkness.
Until there is no space for anything else.
Breathe! Give me breath! Air…
“May I, Monsieur, offer my services without running the risk of intruding?”
‘Twas the voice of the artist- creator.
Or should I call him the destroyer
Of my perception, interpretation.
“It depresses me,” I stated and turned back to my monochromes.
The clouds are so thick
And yet it does not rain.
The ochre earth is grassless.
And the buds stubbornly shut know not how to bloom.
Bloom! Make the petals spring open,
Let the air rush in!
“How could you smile your work to see?
Did you who painted rain, paint me?”
No words were spoken,
Just a twinkling smile on a face devine.
The intruder turned and walked away.
His smile left behind lingered.
And from the sparks of that fading twinkle
A drop of pain splashed into the grayness.
A butterfly purple and pink
Taking off from a closed bud
Which had refused to give pollen.
Flying to another painting perhaps.
To wind and rain.