Oeuvre

I watched her dirty hands
Broken fingernails
Walk across the canvas
Making music

The choir of desolate buildings
Painted with middle-age;
( That grey
Like mould upon the horizon)
Was left unheard
In the empty rooms
While the people;
(Polka dots
As daisies at the door)
Stood silent
Waiting, in the hallways
For the voices to rise
From beyond the bricks.

If only I could paint
And knew what she meant
By that colourless void
I would not have left
To look around
In search of a canvas
With a different sound

9 thoughts on “Oeuvre”

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