It is real, but not
the moment pulses
which is purpose they say
some light, probably halogen, beside them
the sound, the mind,
breaks. Nothing.
Not even a star.
Is this all we are?
The shuffling solitude beneath your gaze
passes on, then further out.
The prints left behind
in and around memory
is my lasting impression.
It isn’t enough
there must be more to everything
the imagination cannot wrap itself around everything.
On the painting by Henri Matisse, sort of.
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