In the nook between an ancient mountain and a dried up river lives a sort of figure.
He rises and falls to the beat of the silent god rotating endlessly
like any other.
But he is his own kind, he is no mere man but an artist true
A brush in his hand is a weapon too, and with that weapon he does create.
This figure is dutifully named The Painter.
He does not simply paint, he does not simply shape, but the canvas indeed
becomes a window that robs the world of a piece of its soul.
Somnolent flesh does his canvas bear, and to it the ink appears.
A blade of grass, a dot of sea foam, a chunk of bark
The Painter captures it all.
And when he does capture that essence, that vestige of life,
A shadow swallows it and takes it to a place that did make me shudder.
Alas, it was supposed to be a gentle day.
A Summer's adventure to beat back against the heat and ennui
disavow the stresses and take back the vigor of nature in us all.
But that shadow did come for me, it appears The Painter had his eyes on me.
And now I am taken and put forth to bear
for eternity over, for millions of drones' witness.
Me, in all my impurities, The Painter saw it all.
I am robbed of myself.
And I am his now.
But that was many years ago,
you see, The Painter died centuries ago.
No more will he steal from nature.
No more will he steal from those like me
unfortunate enough to be wandering into his gaze.
But I only have one concern,
It has been many, many years since his death.
The canvas I was placed onto has been forgotten and collapsed from degradation.
But still I remain in this forgotten plane
between that ancient mountain and the riverbed.
YOU ARE READING
Lines
RandomA mess of stuff that won't fit elsewhere. Some are pretty absurdist, no direct continuity unless stated (doubtful on that, these are meant to be one-off poems/stories). I like to explore different styles of writing in small works like this, so some...
