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ally gunther


Such a pure painting,
Was never truly white-
Splotches of black and red

And the artist he's been working,
Hoping for perfection.

But the product is…
The painting is…

A black, red and white mess,
A black, red and white mess,
But there's too much black,
And not enough white
And the red intertwines
Yeah the artist's blood-
Glues it all together

And to the untrained eye-
The painting's bright,
But I'm a critic
I'll never mistake it
It's come undone
The paintings not well strung
And the blood's not dry it'll seep
Yeah the cut-
It runs too deep

But the product is…
The painting is…


How could he paint
So many tears?
And through abstraction
I'll relive my fears,
Deriving my own meaning
Perhaps there isn't a meaning?

And the clock strikes double twelve
On the edge of my red throne
The painting and I are alone

And through unseen eyes
I know it spies
My thoughts of its' sacrifice
My own blood will suffice
It's a form of sacrifice
Yeah my own blood will suffice

But the product is…
The painting is…


And I can't spill a dropp of paint
No evidence-
Not even faint
Can't let the weed grow
Nobody can ever know

And I dreamt of the forest-
Minus the weeds,
And I dreamt of corporations-
Minus the greed,
And I dreamt of the pain-
Minus the blood,
And I dreamt of the rain-
Minus the sombre,
And now I really sit and wonder,
Can there be lightning-
Minus the thunder?
Could we fly?
And not stop to wonder,
Whether we'll crash,
And the danger,
Come fly with me-
Minus the lead,
And while painting-
Keep a clear head

But the product is…
The painting is…


Ripping the fibres apart
And burning the leftover paint
No trace-
Not even faint.
And I'll start a fire,
With kerosene,
And the painting and I shall never be seen,
Retreating from the fire
We'll never escape the fire

Left only with ashes,
The very next morn…
And only one will stop to mourn
Only one,
Will stop to mourn.

Submitted: Thursday, May 17, 2012

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I know it's not an actual poem...haha

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