The crooked fingers
on the hands of time
hold tightly the almighty pen. They sketch.
Forever, into parchment, into atoms,
all of time, into every empty space.
Stretching arms out over the canvas,
every new part, a new media.
Squeezed, brushed, sprayed,
freehand directed by the waves of life.
Pen, paint, pencil.
No need for a stencil.
A flourish
as the whip-crack line is struck.
Charcoal fractures
against the bone white background,
without a sound, dust flows like black stars
against a snow sky, to the floor below.
Lines of black bestowed upon the page
startlingly beautiful in contrast.
Creating new strands of life.
Sands of time sit dwindling
in the hourglass beside.
Drawing lines, time drawing on.
directing the vast cosmic winds,
like an orchestra conductor,
with a flick of his wrist,
a new moon starts to shine. He sighs.
Sleave billowing like leaves
on the trainline of time.
Stopping the work in its tracks.
He starts to perspire,
as his arm starts to tire,
the work is never complete,
a new sheet waits to be drawn.
Outside the dawn starts
to tear apart the darkness of night,
and the canvas is given
its first blast of sunlight.
In his tired aching state,
he smudges a bit.
Mangling the storyline,
a few lives at a time,
the eraser comes out
and rubs out countless lifelines.
Only oily feint marks left to remind,
stains left on the page of time.
He scrawls a few hideous marks,
some blots on the canvas start to embark,
making a mess of his art.
Tearing apart his old heart.
Then he thinks of her.
The muse who visits
in those brief snatches of sleep,
in his dreams, the one who feeds his visions.
He pulls out some coloured crayons,
Taking his time,
each line, beauty,
to spellbind.
He takes many hours, draws the curtains
then continues painting flowers.
Thanks for reading
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