Paint Without a Canvas

Woke up alone again in the middle of the night
Went to the bathroom 'cos what else was there to do?
The low amber glow of the nightlight on the wall
Blended with the dim ambient moonshadows on the floor
A ghost seeking a switch to ignite a burnt out bulb
The transparent artist with paint dripping from his fingertips
a mirror on the medicine cabinet cracked too many years ago
Or maybe those be lines scribed on a mask worn by sadness
If I had brushes and canvas I'd trace the reflection stairing out at me
A portrait of a self-serving soul in need of something less superficial
Than a black and white one dimensional photocopy with no heart nor soul
While the rainbow of life waiting to be spread by fingers bleeding with passion
Has nearly dried and crumbled, mirroring the image he so profoundly portrayed
Still, in spite of time's relentless chisel, carving away at his stone cold expression
He dreams the image forming in his imagination can be brought to life
On an easel where the seed planted by an artist's hand can grow even in barren fields
Within the imagery of verse, colors spill as clearly as a rainbow brushed across a hungry canvas

jj
(7/25/19)