His paintings, illuminated by the brightness of the Sun.
Masterpieces of the ethereal kind Calming, wondrous, humbling. Human brushstrokes, ever inadequate, And yet, often more celebrated.
Particles to bodies, The harmony of creation Begs us to reach deep within And peer through the looking glass of time. Are our souls still connected To our trees of life? Or have we sold it to the cheapest bidder And let it flow in the rivers of blood, Gushing from the plethora of human tragedies Across time, place and race?
The world weeps with those in sorrow Only for a fleeting moment. Eyes quickly avert to the cheap riches Understood, revered, desired, Which masks the dank smell of greed, The lone standing victor.
Mirror, mirror, All around us, Do we dare look? Is that you or the masquerade of reason? Reflections have become horrors, Despicable, unhinged, without glory.
What do we seek?
Pursuits of immortality,
Often come to naught.
The gold turned to coal,
Reverence in demise.
As the journey nears its end, The weary traveler sways, Drunk from addictions; Still craving, The gentle touch of love.
-© mh, September 2014
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