T’was the sudden retreat of a black bird’s weightless wings
From a still forest laid heavy with bright, white, snow.
Solitude by thought is shaken; feathered thought swings
amid the air, toward the gray sky where you go,
and fall deep into an inky black, placid lake.
Head below the surface all the noise yields to om
‘Til bubbles explode from your nose. At last you wake;
A gasp for air breaks the silence between the foam.
You slide your corpse toward the shoal, broken boat.
Dreams are ice casting atop your bluish skin.
There is a gnostic verse. Somewhere, for you was wrote
To light a candle for a-photic worlds of sin...
Why do thoughts war and imaginations hence grow
in curious, beautiful silence where you ought know?
Day 125
8x10 oil on canvas
Art by: Valerie Dowdy
contact for price information
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