What to paint?
Why must the eye, like a huntsman’s dart,
Seek out the bruise upon the peach,
Or map the cracks within the heart
Before the words are out of reach?
We pace the halls of polished stone,
With lanterns held to hunt for dust,
As if the flaws we call our own
Are settled in the layers of rust.
A jagged edge, a slip of tongue,
A shadow cast where light should fall—
We keep the bitter anthem sung
To build a fortress in the wall.
Is it a fear of open grace?
A shield against the sudden bloom?
We trace the lines upon a face
To strip the warmth from every room.
For if the glass were truly clear,
And mirrors held a steady view,
We’d lose the comfort of the sneer
And be confronted with the true.
So we dissect, we pry, we weigh,
We strip the paint to find the grain,
And chase the gentle sun away
To dwell within the house of stain.
But beauty breathes in spite of sight,
It thrives despite the critic’s pen;
We turn our backs upon the light
To hunt for holes in better men.