The Painting
I walk toward an unnoticed horizon, feeling very much alone.
Looking up, I'm stunned into stillness by the unexpected beauty of a glowing sunset.
An unseen brush brightly paints gossamer clouds with oranges, then pinks, then purples, all synchronized effortlessly with the ever darkening sky.
A deep, cold pain of longing shoots through me.
I long to share this with someone.
I long for someone to share my life.
Turning from the fading splendor I walk away, firmly gripping my despondency.
My heart hears a laugh – no, not a laugh; more like a lover’s chuckle.
A small, whispered voice tells me I am always understood and I am never alone.
Whirling about, I frantically search for the owner of the voice . . .
and recognition makes me smile in embarrassment.
It is the Painter.
Looking up, I'm stunned into stillness by the unexpected beauty of a glowing sunset.
An unseen brush brightly paints gossamer clouds with oranges, then pinks, then purples, all synchronized effortlessly with the ever darkening sky.
A deep, cold pain of longing shoots through me.
I long to share this with someone.
I long for someone to share my life.
Turning from the fading splendor I walk away, firmly gripping my despondency.
My heart hears a laugh – no, not a laugh; more like a lover’s chuckle.
A small, whispered voice tells me I am always understood and I am never alone.
Whirling about, I frantically search for the owner of the voice . . .
and recognition makes me smile in embarrassment.
It is the Painter.