“World Brush”


A painter sits before his easel and paints.
His brush is stirred by the wind of a language
that is not words.

She brushes the dreams out of her hair
as he paints the dust upon the canvas.
They both know that the future exists — somewhere,
but it is not here.

She brushes the moment aside
as he paints all the sounds the silence makes —
and she watches the moon rise
as he tells it which shapes to take.

She blows out her candle
and where the moon he painted glowed
there is now only a waft of curling smoke;
and his brush no longer burns with dreams,
but is the silver ash of a dying wick —
and it seems

that as she sleeps he paints only the sand
inside her eyes
and forfeits painting stars into the skies.

Written April 2013, Emma Dumitra.
Image from wallpaperpimper.com. 


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