I’m looking at the bowl of oranges
Hand fastened onto
brush,
brush onto
canvas
And the canvas is empty, it’s weird how
Like sand through fingers,
Every shadow, every indent
Escapes me
How something so still, can be so
elusive
It’s still a mystery to me.
I’m looking at the man lying in
off-white hospital
bed sheets
My hand is
grasping his hand, and his hand is on his chest
What’s inside there is silent, it’s weird how
They say death makes faces honest
But I’m
looking at him
Every
shadow, every
indent
I was only inches away
But it
felt like
Opposite sides of the Berlin wall
How something so still, can be so elusive
It’s still a mystery to me.