The Painting (2001)

The tip is dipped into the palette.

A splash of purple,

A stroke of green,

Dots of red to create the scene.

Yellow laughter and childish pink,

Silver stars that smile and wink.

Then black is spilt.

It flows into the lines

The painter had pressed and brushed,

like a spider weaving its sticky home

or the poison that runs through every vein

with little destruction as its prominent aim.

It sinks in.

The painter anxiously tries to recuperate but it is no use –

The darkness has become the painting.

Even with a new sheet

It would not be the same.

And anyway,

The palette is empty.