From My Window

My Window

My Window

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Overlooking the park where the

bench claims its silences, the

lonely artist, poet, musician,

operatic star dreaming of

greatness as the stage beckons

its call.

 

Lost in makeup paint the player

looks once more in the mirror

before proceeding to perform

for the waiting audience.

 

A gentle breeze blows open the

window and there in the shadows

and silences feelings are awoken

and the needle on the record

crackles and pings old melodies

that brought the artist to life.

The artist reflects and smiles.

 

The artist searches the distance

and sees the old bench where all

artists sat before the play, the

stage, the recital, the orchestra,

the applause from their audiences.

 

The bench claims ownership and

souls and hearts weep as the chips

of old paint fall to the ground

weeping each old blister as the

rain washes it away.

 

From the window my eyes are

fixed on the person the bench

inherits for a season and watches

as the makeup peels and withers

and rippled is the face behind

the mask.

 

The artist is alone now as the bench

claims yet another talent while the

mist disappears like a Halo around

angel’s wings.

Vincent Moore 2015


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