out at gray skies. Wave upon wave of sad-faced clouds,
the weight of the situation casting their gaze downward. One after another
for as far as the eye can see. Maybe out there, gray turns blue for someone.
But here it is as distant as never.
to wield a brush to capture the intensity of the image that
endlessly sprawls before me. Switch to pencil then chalk, seeking a forum
that will grant me some small piece of the tangible. Surely charcoal, but I end
up tainted this horrid green and still yearning for an answer.
Today and revel its accommodations so I take this black
magic box to the window. I consider the light and the shading. Click.
I zoom into one cloud. Click. Zoom back. Click. There is no moment of clarity yet.
It has to be this time, this moment, that I can trust to relieve this image that
haunts me so perfectly.
it will so much so that when the fabricated image is before me I almost don’t
see it is an image of my own creation. It doesn’t show what was there. I feel chastised
by the powers that be for trying to understand what perhaps I am not supposed to. If
I had known more or done more or been more or seen more… If
for the notes to fall in place I could build the image in a song. I regret
there is no nightingale in me. So could I lay out its weight on the page that bass would echo
the rawness of this visual desperation? I could not make that come to pass.
the image remains barely a shadow, but as much proof as not.
It is there, well within the realm of regret but just out of my reach to interpret or change
as he lies there in that magic black box just barely in sight,
perfectly. And perfectly he remains regret.
J.Lyn Original 9/12/14