…. somewhere, he is standing with a brush in <br />one hand and another trapped between his teeth, <br />oblivious to the drops of paint that have fallen on his <br />collar, on the floor beside him, on the top of his <br />bare foot. He is gone; drifting somewhere between the <br />music flooding through the room and the canvas before <br />him, sensing an impending lightening strike as he dismisses <br />one brush in favor of the other, not even knowing why <br />he would. He, artist. He, painter. He, creator. He is alive. <br /> <br />… and, she, barefooted herself, is pacing unconsciously <br />in another room, reciting from the book in her hand, <br />at full voice now, unaware that he’d slipped through the <br />door Jim Morrison left open just as she was tumbling <br />through the one Pessoa left ajar decades before. She is <br />at home; chasing thunder in a place of endless skies, <br />without boundaries, without the burden of floors, <br />as if nothing else mattered nor ever again could. <br />She, artist. She, poet. She, dreamer. She is living. <br /> <br />She is birthing words then without hesitation or <br />conscious intention, letting them bleed like wet paint <br />down a wall onto the page. He is spreading colors <br />without premeditation, reflecting the deepening hues <br />of a sunset to backdropp the figure standing in shadow <br />beneath a streetlamp. As the sun falls down, she crawls, <br />silently, onto his canvas as he embeds himself, deliberately, <br />into her poem. They are white, and black, and burnt orange <br />– beyond her words, above his image. They are, for <br />the night, a night, this night – <br /> <br />Art, and nothing more.<br /><br />Christine Austin Cole<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/art-and-nothing-more/
