The truth is painting is a doorway
My portal through time
To old yellowed videos
come to life, in my mind’s eye
As if looking at it, I can see the other side
To memories and people long gone
Their lives un-erased
Reunited beneath the brush
Every painting is a piece of me
Coupled with a feeling of identity
The soul of sorrow painfully poured
onto my palette
With every stroke comes the praise of those most dear
They’re just out of reach, turning back smiling from the horizon
Loving voices in this echo chamber
Trying to convince me of a worth I do not feel
Words I can not hear
Creation being nothing more than my interwoven paint
the bristles
a canvas
smudged stains
time
and an aching heart to tie the bow
While still so much more
If I don’t have this then what do I have?
Strip away the paint, you find cracks
Take away the brush and I might drift away in the wind
Like nothing – until I join them on the horizon
My life erased, left in boxes of yellowing pages and forgotten reels
Where paint is the band-aid on my heart, paper thin
I must keep painting away the pain
Covering up a teary stain
Pretending this doorway could stay open
And I could step in
Kindled Shadow Poetry 