Cold war painter

The lamb that muses lies down on broadened furrows as the cold war painter dresses for a journey.
Washed in crimson and blood red the fever nights cut on the day's razor edge.
Hard empty heartaches from beside the bed and the sound-colored tempos grow fainter and fainter in his head.
Flanging out of phase trying to find the cold war painter: A rescuer, a writer, a composer perhaps.
A torn text scrap from under the desk drawer drifts carelessly in the winter wind like trash but choreographed with precision and beauty.
Slow strokes emerge and the canvas is unfrozen. Delicately approached, misgiving at most, but the instance is real.
No slanders. No souls to check. No hidden reels to run.
Just the wood, the horsehair, and the reservoir of red umber in linseed oil set to touch.
And the fabric holds court for the primitive lines once more.

(c) & (p) 2012 subconscious mind publication company