dusty galleries

i’ve been fortunate to have loved and been loved by true works of art, to have had my portrait hung in their hallowed halls even for just a short time, to be painted in minute detail as a renaissance instance of passion writhing between the canvas, bruises and scars and a devilish smile and eyes of fire and need, them as saintly demoness of lust and purity in dichotomous wonder and balance, those paintings still hang in my gallery though vandals have spray painted phallus over my face, crude words in running paint, leaving the true subject, the her of then pristine and unsullied

i’m sure the paintings in their galleries have been slashed, the marbles statues redacted, fig leaves cemented over genitals, less than flattering additions to exhibits, brass plaques with unkind descriptions screwed to the frames, a concierge explaining the tragedy of mistaken identity, of dual faced incredulous distaste

i roam the halls in my mind, seeking inspiration from the art of distant endeavors, yet my hands have not wielded a brush in some time, but the urge to paint again, to stretch a new canvas and try anew burns again, maybe a different technique, use unconventional styles, coffee stains, a vial of my own blood, try to capture the amazement this newest muse calls forth, find my way out this blue period of languid depression and into a more forward thinking aspect of her wonder, paint a masterpiece to rival the greats and show her that this tragic artist is worthy of her adoration and to find his own place in her halls, make her the centerpiece of my personal louvre

but i stand nervously with easel in front of me, hands rigid and arthritic, afraid the times for painting are long past, seeking a sign and not knowing where to look, the once bold now reduced to hesitant and penitent

2 thoughts on “dusty galleries

  1. And then you finally pick up the brush, paints laid out in just the way they need to be laid out, no rhyme for others but each in it’s perfect place and quantity. The lighting adjusted, the canvas perfectly centered on a stained easel. Your hand lifts and you’re transported to where she stands, resides in your memory, never leaves, and all you can do is sit and stare and stare and stare at her and before you know it the sun has gone down and though each dollop of paint at your wrist has a dry skin covering it, there are somehow wet tears on your cheeks and you focus on the canvas in front of you and you see…. nothing.

    Liked by 1 person

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