Inside white sheets a woman sleeps.
Outside the sound of a passing train
Rattles a dirty window.
Next door a man rises from an aged rusty bed
And dresses in worn out clothes.
The wooden floor is silent in fear.
His wife emerges and blames him for her ageing.
He sighs into his lonely thoughts.
She falls and cry’s into a fading dream.
His work is endless stillness.
Her work is to forget.
The painting in which they both appear Is seen by passing artists.
In their minds they steal that image
Which duplicates the silence of space.
On canvases they paint and draw.
Moulding loneliness into form and shape.
So viewers see themselves in the pain that’s painted.
They see a frame of many lives.
The artist is imprisoned.
Inside of frightened minds.
Crying inside they cover tears in colours.
Hoping to be seen by the many
That look and dry their eyes.