97: the artist

The window opens sleepily,
Wind sailing through the curtains like
ghosts of itself, clothed and visible
for those last lazy couple of seconds.

Colours strewn across the floor,
intentional mess by The Artist
whose hands writhe in paralysis
the scribbles drawn with truth.
The colours roll off of hardwood
smoothly trailing a river of marble-mixed
concoctions,
love, drowned in emotion,
don't forget to breathe before you leap
into the currents of painted abyss.
Stepping on it all, leaving imprints, it means nothing,
yet I hear the old applause, and the voiceless chanting.