1000 days

The painter drapes the leaves with blood in autumn,

and come spring soaks the blossoms in pink.

He separates the smooth and scalding,

the crisp and piercing.

He distinguishes that which stings the tongue

from the softly stroking flavors.

Scattering all these across the canvas

so that they may lie silently.

He parts his lips but makes no sound.

The whispers are our own.

Voices which caress and tear apart the heart

and the mind.

The painting is not real;

yet it speaks to us through the vibrations.

Oscillating the soul and spirit, it creates noise.

We see, hear, touch, and taste the work

for a thousand days

but we never feel it. That sensation is not his.

It is ours. And it is real.

What is life but a thousand day dream?

1 2