Poetry

The Painter, The Canvas, The Muse and The Piano

written by: Kate War

He would often sit in this simply decorated room - still and still.
As though caught.
There was no sound. No breathing.
He was still and still, still the world moved about him.
In a drunken blur life
- it swirled at his feet
He did not ignore life
- he relished it, and savoured

But the moments he spent alone were the best.

Even when she was alive he would sit alone - quiet and quiet.
Still caught.
There was clambering. And banging.
He would smile and smile, smile as she moved about him.
In a flitting haze
- her perfume filled the air
He did not ignore her
- he relished her, and savoured

The moments they spent alone were the best.

She would play the piano softly - and she'd sing and sing.
He was caught.
He'd never interrupt. Never talk.
He would just watch and watch, watch the way she was living.
A beautiful creature
- someone whom he adored
A beautiful woman
- she would never leave his side

The moments together with family were the best.

Now he stood in a quiet old house - and felt so alone and alone.
But was caught.
The piano couldn't sing. Wouldn't talk.
He would just stare and stare, stare into the empty space.
There was never any time
- but always time to be alone
Not enough hours in the day
- to spend by her side

The moments she'd spent with him were the best.

Now staring at the blank canvas - he'd think and think.
Never caught.
He'd never been stuck. Couldn't paint.
He would just paint and paint, paint everything about him.
The sun and the stars
- over lamplit Paris streets
The trees and the moon
- over dusty country roads

Every moment should have been the best.

The she leaned over his shoulder and she whispered and whispered.
"Are you still caught?"
"You've never been lost. Never alone."
"You just need to stop and stop, stop all your fussing."
"You were the painter
- and I the piano
You are the canvas
- and I am your muse."

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