Whispers At The Gallery

Combat.
Are there
ancient soldiers
in the
rooms filled
with paintings?
What kind of color
are they?
We must flatter, dance,
whistle, shout louder
and proclaim
the best of
tidings for them.
Their spinning wheels
are spinning with
with the sound of soothing harps,
their armor woven
lauded by milk-maids
of olden times.

We walk through the chambers
whispering,
swaying,as mirrors
hold the expressions,
affectionate or gruesome


opening and swirling
as the nemesis of talk
passes under
archways, akin to
the beloved sound
of scattering love for Handel,l
like
strange news
thrown into the streets
in the wake of rebels,
floating in wishes,
crash the universe,
slicing the underworld
of gods


The canvases are soaked
with love left to see,framed
roses, sour grapes, and
moist figs.

Reflections echo from
one to the other when
doors open as
college men and women
shuffle
through the exit.

History is now
as the world becomes a stage
as the world expects to
find light to the day of reckoning
a space to where another
paining will be hung
that speaks of no soldiers
at all

and it is only because
those such artists of the craft,
were raised in the bright
light of knowledge
beaming
devastating colours.