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.
