On the Silent Tracks

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overmind
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On the Silent Tracks

Postby overmind » Tue May 14, 2013 6:26 pm

I always try to think
Of a new beginning
Never before heard,
But thought does not carry me
To the next station.
The next destination.
I hover over its tracks
Dragging the wind behind,
But I do not find the train.
It is stationary at port
As I peer in its painting.
Floating pastels
And precious oils
Mounted on chalk-white
Centered canvas.
A photograph
Of subjective portrayal.
The tracks lead out the picture
And lay at my feet.
Yet they lead nowhere
As the dead train stays silent.
I must redraw and remodel.
The subject is ideal,
But the environment lacking.
I take two steps back
Out of an old workshop
Where dyed water rose
From cylindrical jars
And fell on fake marble floors.
Does all my work escape the seal?
Or does my world leak in?
I still walk backward
Without a trip in sense,
Nor trope to step on.
So I stare in the mirror
And meet the washroom,
Pale indignation
Peeling from indigo eyes.
Tears of tiredness fall
In my empty sink.
Fatigue is carved in this face.
A touch in the glass
Creates ripples of time,
A sensation I could not
Clearly describe.
The substance leaks
Along with my tears
To form a silver soup
In my empty sink.
My breath holds my excitement
And I fog the room.
Steam from my forehead
Forewarns my psyche.
I step back out the room
And walk and skip
Through my slumber halls.
If my work of art cannot grow
This lust for stimulation
And inspiration,
I will view the paintings on my walls
In my long-felt slumber hall.
Faces of the dead
Rejoice from my notice,
Singing in unison
With a draining chorus.
The noise and chatter
Of nonchalant matters
Brings me to cover my ears.
But there are quiet paintings,
Dreamy paintings of air
And mountaintop views
From a summer’s fair
Long held in childhood.
A picture of a lake
With water clear
And fish grinning
In devilish fever.
A print of a cathedral
Once constructed in town
Atop a pointed cliff,
The ink paints gray stained glass.
More worlds and windows
Hang in staggered lines.
My exhaust fuels the dream
Where lost souls sleep
And nightmares creep
To make me weep.
It was all created for the ideal,
Where ideas could flourish
In bouquets of expressive joy.
But the hall continues forever
And increases in size.
There is more room for space,
More space to draw,
To write, to paint,
To hang achievements
On the hallway walls,
But as I walk I am small.
The more room outside,
The less in me.
The end of the hall is nothing.
I will appear as nothing
And the accomplishments
Will form a tapestry and quilt.
But it is white!
Clear as day and dark as night.
A pale white as dead as my skin.
Such achievement is worthless
When none may see it.
The colored walls
Are levels of perception,
And only I may see.
So I walk backwards again
Into the studio and workshop
And enter the painting
Of a standalone train,
Still on its tracks.
It is stationary.

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