The Broken Canvas

The broken Canvas

Earlier that night he saw a broken Canvas and it’s soul
He recalled the feeling it gave, still rekindling the coals
The grungy gallery walls hung all kinds of work
But only one caught him, in the corner by a bucket
It was titled “Lust, and Must”
Smelling soot and ash he looked upon the bent frame
His heartbeat quickened, sending ripples through the sand
Sharp edges tearing, splitting apart his homely land
Broken soldiers fall to swollen knees
Their enemies relentless; no pity, just greed

The gallery is empty, but for a mouse in a crack
The place is stingy; she avoids the crooked back
Not a pleasant place to be but for this Canvas on display
A remainder of a date
A replacement of her current state

His feelings wonder now in the dark empty station,
A lowly night with an uncertain wind weathering his skin and chilling his bones
Whistles blow and its time to go, he enters the tram in which he came
He knows the railroads broken but the train engine remains
A blizzard approaches, and on comes the rain

The paint on the tiles colour a sickly pink
A bucket in the corner catches a needed drink
The artist just standing, alone in pain
The painting was complete, nothing looked wrong
It had the feelings she felt, true and strong
Some may ignore It as art because of its simplicity

Only a tear tainting the white thread
But the tear was heavy, and black as lead
Though there was more than that, to her it was clear
Her throat seized and her eyes shut tight
A question pounded her
Dulling her sense of being and worth
Finally her lips open wide, and she screamed
“Shouldn’t a master of woe be rid of sorrow?”
An answer came back muting her cry
The Canvas spoke forth, sending chills down her spine
“She should”
Is all that was said
Her shoulders collapsed and her tears dried hard
She supposed home base was a good place to start

He chose a seat at the back of the train
His head rested, supported by his knees
The seat he sat upon rumbled a soft hum
He shook in the cold, and rain pattered above
The canvas, a puzzle, a feeling, a motive of being
A question that screamed but remained to be seen

The train climbed steady though the destination was unclear
The broken tracks he knew came near
Darkness flooded the train as the lights shut off
He sat up from his lap waiting for his eyes to adjust
Peering outside he saw the moon, the beautiful colour of rust
The train began to slow, brakes smoking through dust
The doors squealed open and he disembarked
Guided by a feeling, all logic gone missing
The wind kissed his cheeks
And the smell of pine greeted
The mountains spread wide in the shape of a bowl
Maybe now he could understand the secrets
of the broken canvas and it’s soul

She left the dark building into the streets darker yet
An umbrella she had been holding now served its purpose
“She should,” the words rung in her ears
She thought of her painting
A guide perhaps
A beautiful creation, like the first plotted maps
She looked left and right down the lonely lane
A tear rolled her cheek or mayhaps it was rain
Where was her home, not here, she knew
She peered to the mountains, what should she do