At the Museum

"Lavender Mist,"
I've stared
at this painting
for hours.

The contours
of its inner landscape
create undulations
not unlike
the swirling
of two fingers
plunged deep
within the question
of her sanity.

The wet mark marbling,
warbled and warped,
moaning saturations
with Saturned rings
strew with the orbital
calligraphic graffiti,
the Japanese
Zen hung warriors
undefeated
in koany grace,
fracture the fractalization
of the structure,
turning the mind
into an open
dwelling,
the door to which
is a solid planed pinxit;
one stroke, and the entire painting
is rendered universal,
the tongue of entry,
the slaying of the counterpointed
regrets of the past.

I step into the middle
of the drive,
an oozing spring
of mediums
and séances.

The fortunes of the damned
unfold and those of us
who lie in wait
urged on by her
understanding,
weep uncontrollably
and the beauty.

Lavender Mist,
I have seen your seductions,
metaphysical and surreal,
and my lips have not been able to stop whispering
nor my fingers been able to relent.

You have touched me as my soul was crying,
and when I reached out, you were there.

Violet.
Purple.
Lavender.

And wetness,
perfect,
a mist.

runningturtle87