I.

Eyeslashes lie heavy on the doorstep
Of sleep, but he must keep them open;
His canvas will not transform itself
Into an aurora, dancing on the walls,
His paints are set out like lines in the desert sand;
Yellow for the clouds, ultramarine for the hills,
Rocks os silver knives
That draw arrows in the artist's brow.

His greatest challenge has awoken
From its cave, but is
Reluctant to leave the mouth of shadows
Where its fragmented stars make sense
And vision is not blurred.

The sun is setting across the snowy altar,
Acusing eyes in its departure,
Amber kisses the horizon, refusing to slip
Beneath its velvet-eyed curtain,
Paintbrush drips in anticipation, but it is merely
Marble splattered across the floor.

"My walls are empty,
But my heart is full,
Why can the sorrow of one
Not become the faces of another?"

He strokes the tip of his brush, envying its stillness
Whilst demanding it to leap from his crinkled hand
And block the choking white from his eyes,
While he cannot listen to the whisper of ghosts
As they fade against the cotton sunset.

There are no candles
To guide his struggle.

II.

Daybreak echoes with the sun's fury,
Though subdued by the moon; the fire burns dimly
From the crest of the landscape,
Artist ponders; "Who can create such wonders
Apart from Nature herself?
What am I to do?"

"I could paint the hills with eyes,
I could turn my aches and dreams
Into lucid patterns and waltzing hearts
Instead of this madness!
Have I forgotten how?"

With a shake of his head, sorrow spills
From his mouth, and paint,
Half-dried in the night,
Tumbles onto his shoes, a red sea
Crashing against black rocks;
It has nowhere to go
But everywhere.

Without a shadow, the artist exits,
A footprint in the canvas.

When his bones havfe turned to ashes
And his name spoken across
The lips of the continents,
His torn canvas will be
His only name.