there’s no way to know
for certain what he saw
from his open window
one solitary night
when he felt moved enough
to reach for his brushes
so that this lone insight
could burst into life
through ten thousand swirls
and strokes of blue
upon blue punctuated
here and there with yellow
and white orbs of light
shining high above some sleepy
town which only existed
in imagination.
and standing before
his stunning expression
of a deep longing to live
in a world which ebbs and flows
with the rhythm and harmony
of all that’s still good
and all that aspires to be
i’d like to think
that he can finally take rest
not so much in a fame
as fleeting as summer rain
but rather for doing his best
to convey a truth deeper
than words ever could
which resides far beyond
the dawning horizon.
