Back and forth, left to right,

like a moth around a candle,

like a bat in flight.

Hand and eye mesmerized,

watching the slash of blazing

colors criss-cross, collide,

slowly erasing and trace of

the screaming face that stares

at me starkly from each blank

canvas, like a maniac unleashed;

until it is magically replaced

by occult incantations and

voodoo rites which people

take for art – line, form, hues,

shapes, all rainbows in a

mindscape of amazing grace.

It is cold in the studio, dead

of winter in the windows, sky

a shroud, yet fever bright from

incandescent light.  I shiver and

inhale another coffin nail.  On

the canvas, faceless strangers

come and go, as shadows

sweep across a land where

mists envelope each pale

ghost lost in a nimbus about

to disappear like smoke, until

finally there is nothing, no

beginning and no ending. nor

anything in between, except

life’s dream.

 

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