The picture haunts,
a tree back-lit,
its leaves a flutter,
winds driving clouds to streaks,
a mesh to hold the sky in blue,
and eternity hidden
beyond the reflection’s hue.
Those feathered plumes,
those white strokes
dragged so pointedly in artists scope,
haunts me still; it moves,
and creaks as boughs bend,
and the rush of air I feel in my hair,
as I look upon this painted scene.
Eyes upon me, somewhere, I know not,
expected, a man looking back,
but he escapes my eye,
as the gusts ensue
and clouds race the eternal blue,
my heart pounds
wondering when he’ll reveal himself.
This picture teases me,
grasps my neck and squeezes; closer I look,
and no-one stares back;
the papers on my desk do flutter,
curl from all this wind, and still,
a blackened window from a small hut remains,
but someone lurks behind, I chill.
When sun falls down and colors meld,
this scene in change, this picture held,
and as darkness swallows whole my dream,
and the gloaming races to fall,
a man steps out into the low light,
and tips his hat,
as if to bid good night.
And so my picture upon the wall,
draws my mind, expectations soar,
until the night surrenders day,
and stories told in spirits play,
and return I do to life,
how sane my plight.
Tony DeLorger © 2017
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