A Yellow Brush MAG

By Amy T., Bedminster, NJ

Dim smiles of twilight slant through the studio window
at sharp angles,
Dusk fading to copper green.
In a room that’s too small
Papers pile high as cathedrals
Scratched with graphite lines.
Old, empty paint tubes litter the floor like autumn leaves
A malodor hangs
of oils
and last night’s dinner.
A giraffe-necked desk lamp gazes at a wooden easel
Where a half-finished painting is perched -
White spaces cry out silently to be.
The rest of the apartment is dark.
On a pull-out sofa as old as the Parthenon
An artist sleeps uneasily.
The television flickers static on his concentrated brow.
In his fingers is
a frayed yellow brush,
The saffron paint drips onto the floor, waiting to become
a starry evening
the downy wing of a bird
the soft dress of a Parisian lady.
An old lady, disappointed at the failure of her life,
Dials the superintendent’s number
To complain about the smell of paint.

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This article has 2 comments.

i love this so much!

on Feb. 9 2015 at 8:32 am
Ray--yo PLATINUM, Kathmandu, Other
43 articles 2 photos 581 comments

Favorite Quote:
God Makes No Mistakes. (Gaga?)
"I have hated the words and I have loved them, and I hope I have made them right." -Liesel Meminger via Markus Zusac, "The Book Thief"

Nine years...I hope you're well :)


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