THE PAINTING
Amongst the crackled droplets, acrylic tubes, twisted every
which way, I picked you up. The softness of your bristles ignite
the purpose of my first love. I ramage through the walls of faceless
canvases, searching for the right size, wait, there is no right size,
not now, all I want is to hear the first whispering strokes of the
hallowed sound between brush and canvas, giving praises of the
tender manifestation of truth.
The colors swirl with melodious and undefine imagery.
The drippings of acrylic liquid freely form the bond of friendship
between brush and canvas. Layer upon layer painted in specific
areas, are plastered to scream the joy of showing the world, the
dept of your ambigious self. So I splash with care. You ask of me,
then you pull me in and with my brush I do the obvious, I storke back
with colors from my ceramic plate.
Slowly you emerge, having wings spread wide, uplifted by the
rock of ages, my brush kept on painting, your smile emerge, with each
stroke of my brush, the very elect cried out. Brush and canvas formed
a bond for eternity, while down at my feet the colors of a prismatic
kaliedoscope forms a rainbow, that uplifts me from the sacrilege of my
demise. I must finish this painting, forge now with the complexity
of unconditional bearing from the lasiviousness of onlookers. I wept,
as the mirror image of canvas painted, came to life. I was saved by
my willingness to use my brush, from the abundance of love.
Bridget Johnson© December 21, 2011
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