Painterman’s House

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The household does not stir
And in the pervading silence
All hearts murmur their murmurous tones:
Darkness, the fluttering curtain blows.
A soft pit pat where the cat soft goes.

In the rooms, lost in thought,
Twisted humanity lingers its eye
Around and around the leveled white ceiling,
The grief of a heart too heavy to cry.
A minute, like an hour, passes by.

The heart is the place where
Gentle blossoms spring. Untouchable as it is,
That sanctimonious thing, the goodness in all
To the knowing eyes bring. It is a time
Where the birds nor the starlets sing.

A paint brush rushes along the outer wall
As his call to mop out dripping paint
Comes as paint drops would fall.
A painted house new-roofed that knows no cheer
In tragic metrical flow, like Shakespeare.

Play the soft piano, my sweet,
On it a tune to a listening ear that
Gives melody to your thoughts play for me to hear,
As I stand outside, there, where the blood once flowed
And as I watch the window shut, as if now widowed.

Play — play — from some small fragile note
Begin to play for that time is feeble and it
Flows and as you play the time goes.
The cloud of darkness, it passes where we look
And of joy, fate retains what inevitability took.



One thought on “Painterman’s House

    Wristcutter said:
    December 14, 2011 at 4:34 pm

    Lovely! 🙂

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