PURE

When the sun goes down

Behind the skyline of the city

The artist awaits the spark

Of inspiration.

His spouse contradicts him with

Her fashionable image: She’ll be

The antichrist to his purified soul.

There are no themes set

For the creation of art

The incidents of stumbling blocks

That lie on the surface of his canvas

Other than pens running out of ink

And brushes drying out on the

Lack of paint

Their bristles spreading like

Electrified hair

Words that froze to death

Killed thru’ continuous mumbling

In the frosted air

Of married indifference.

It’s never personal

But seeking the truth

In relationships will hurt in the end

One couple as deeply as it hurt

The indifferent spouse.

When the sun goes down

Behind the skyline of the city

The artist draws from the fount

Of pure innerness.

PURE.ERUP

 

zoltanzelan

ZJG-POetry’18.

 

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