This Is Lonesome. A Stroke Poem by Lazarus Knix

This is the deepest
Of oils-
The boldest brush-
The brightest parchment
Of the soul.

This is the grayest picture,
Where the trees are dead and
Still.
Where the sky is lost in fog,
And the sun warming some
Other heart.
The grass is frozen and bent
Back with the frost of time
Upon their bodies.
The river is deceased.
I walk beside her ice ridden mouth.

The artist is hung
Upon the wall
With his work-
His paint, his blood,
I cannot tell them apart.
I cannot see a difference
Anymore.
Are they one,
The painter and his picture?

This is the longest time.
The dimmest time.
Not time spent in solitude-
Not time spent in silence-
But time spent in loneliness.
I hold his brush in my hand
And with a stroke of anguish
Paint myself white…
I lie down in the open snow...
And wait for the sun to come.