Abstract

He looks at me. Not in my eye, but he thinks he is. What does he see? Perhaps he sees the struggle of his ancestors in my strokes. Or could he see love upon my canvas? Colors familiar, yet hue unknown. I tease him. A lady has now stopped to look at me. She however is looking directly into my eyes. Can she see them? She stares as if listening to me. I tell her of violence and deviant love. She is captivated, as was my masters intent.what am I to them? A boy strolls by, and almost passes me before his peripheral tricks his fancy into thinking of things curious. I see confusion as he looks for common feature to expose my hiding place. And something more when he fails to do so. What am I? What am I to them? . I am billowing waves of August percale. Beckoning as to a child, to run through with outstretched hands so that i may touch them. I'm conflagration, a raging chaos not yet named. I am summer, Yet I am spring. In me all things ate possible, and all things denied. I am soliloquy. I am the words spoken to only you as you see me. I am your imagination. In my broad strokes. My lines seemingly undirected. My colors bold yet fluid against offended motion. I am abstract. I am different, and yet familiar to everyone