The atelier door
The canvas is bare
and the base coat is pain,
as we begin our self-portrait,
muting even the sharpest
delineations, the staunchest hues.
We dream of truer colors
until some cry of pain, interior or exterior,
(from ourselves or others),
returns us to the task at hand.
But, soon we shall drift away (once more),
to conjure up another masterpiece,
flitting about the room,
staring from the windows, hovering abstractly
above palette, canvas and easel.
The base coat is pain
and the atelier door
is locked from the outside.
The portrait paints itself – beyond
our judgment, control or critical flair
and we are, alas, (try as we might),
bound inextricably to our labor, yet, unable
to add or subtract a single stroke.
O child of God, the origin of ego is attachment
made manifest through ceaseless imaginings.