The Accidental Impressionist
’

leaving the sullied sunlight behind,

he is fleetingly immortalized, immorally

engrossed in an indefinable instant

to leave a soaking clump of colour

trailing… (he does not notice this)

‘

in his wake, vivacious tints are clinging

to the passive-aggressive feet of bristle

disheartened shadows are mooning,

almost a bruised pool for our waded

tears (he does not seem to care!)

‘

on the surface, skimming my desperation

the dislodged pigments of his meaning

are floating allusions to happiness--

all the elusive vagueness a deliberated

deliberation (of this he is Very well aware)

‘

the elements abandoned, and he is unmoved

even by the prying nudges of time, an étude

of fidelity in this standstill where someday,

they will coronate him on mottled pedestals

a Genius (it is as though he already knows)

‘

but I will never know him