Overlooking the park where the
bench claims its silences, the
lonely artist, poet, musician,
operatic star dreaming of
greatness as the stage beckons
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 artist is alone now as the bench
claims yet another talent while the
mist disappears like a Halo around
Vincent Moore 2015