Echoes and Rainbows

I thought the artist dead, certain that she’d killed him.

The feelings had fled, the colors all faded to dirty shades of grey, the music not even listless, the words just not there. Cold had lost its bite and heat its ardor; the flavor, not even a tepid vanilla. Had the artist lived, even in these he would have found magic and inspiration and the makings of a wonderful frieze. But in forgetting everything he’d ever felt for her he’d forgotten everything else as well. And he was not sad. Not glad either; he hadn’t it in him.

But perhaps mere disdain is not enough to really kill an artist, perhaps it just stuns for a while, and in the resulting void, the colors of chaos seek the spark that reignites, that flavors delight with the memories of night.

Yesterday a poem slipped out, almost unheard, mere whispers spread white on white on the memory of a page, like a pulse returning from a visit to the land of the dead. Then a sigh escaped and a heart beat and an eye blinked open in an aching head, and the light that at first blinded coalesced and thoughts swirled and drifted.

No smiles though, … at least not yet.
_______

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