Painting on the Wall

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A painter, his painting adorns the wall… I’ve been here often, I’ve been here before, I’ve been here, I’ve been here alone and all… I’ve listened to the accusations of colder men, who read poetry professionally, but despised the poet, his sensibilities and all… The poem, born out-of-wedlock, looked down upon by the moral man. A painter, his painting adorns the wall of a university hostel room. Some lovers of colors and abstractions, sang silently into his ears, and I smile as he adheres to the old wise woman, who herself had painted all her life with words and dreams… I wonder as I walk down the stairs, as I walk outside, as I look at the Neem leaves in yellow light, beautiful yellow light, I wonder without a constant object of wonder… wondering… wandering… delighted, at not having been understood… Painter, his painting adorns the wall, of a building, a brick building… the painting, orange like the evening, but not of the evening…

2 thoughts on “Painting on the Wall

  1. maureenrose7 says:

    and a day like today I choose to visit a someone that feels as though he is an old dear friend…once more I read him and something inside of me lives, is alive, is born again!! ❤

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