The Painting

There is always more to see than what is displayed.

I strolled from the traffic,

Walked away from the noise,

Which held nothing but silence,

For the state of my heart.

Into the gallery,

With walls without windows,

Each painting as a pane,

Between my eyes and new world.

My eyes traveled far,

Conveying my heart,

Well into the past,

And onto new lands.

Then I came to an image,

Of a lake on darkened day,

With a man of deep sadness,

Between the clouds and reflection.

The bushes and the trees,

Spoke of sunshine and spring,

Of full flowers and seed,

Promising life upon life.

The waters held a rhythm,

Of hundreds of hearts,

With the fish and their frenzy,

Beneath a mirror of glass.

The man’s eyes held a story,

Of children and laughter,

And a woman of heart,

Not here on that day.

The painting spoke of all,

In unspoken words,

Of truth and experience,

Which the paint would not say.