Expressions of an Artist

He dedicated it to her,

A homage to their affair.

To her purity of mind, innocent from reality.

An amalgamation of emotions,

Swirled, blended, whirled across the canvas.

A haphazard splatter here and there,

Gestures made casually, he thought- graceful:

A splash of puce green against a shock of fuchsia,

A vortex of colors meet in the left corner,

A hypnotizing blend indeed.

Not quite earth tones, not quite sky tones,

A muddied conversation between colors.

He finished it with a single stroke

Of tangerine orange, horizontally aligned

Down the center of his canvas.

It was them; he beamed at

The tangerine splatter.

Some may declare it rubbish

Or others, (kindly) a 21st Century Pollock

Modern, impressionistic, abstract, art.

Injured and insulted by these labels,

For him, it is an expression of his soul.

The idealist, hopeless romanticist-

The artist.

He presents it with a flourish,

“For you, to you, of you”

Peering into her guileless eyes.

Waiting, expecting, holding in a breath, unconscious.

Her dark eyes held his.

Scrunching her porcelain doll features,

Pursing her petal lips,

Suddenly he feels dread.

Then something, a little thing,

Is snuffed out, flickering briefly, then shriveling,

Dying a little death in him.

As those same petal lips which

He lauded, adored, tasted,

Uttered two ugly words.

His face pales,

his lips forms a downwards crescent.

She smiles simperingly at him but her

words-

To him, a shattering disillusionment:

“It’s pretty.”