On Or Behind The Canvas? Read Count : 15

Category : Poems

Sub Category : N/A

Maybe the glass of a window is just a canvas

and all that is outside, a painting

But it is not paralyzed, no, quite the opposite

It lives and breathes and finds itself in constant motion again after only a second of believing the fear of being lost and untraceable.

But how should that be possible?

God won't leave you and me

and even where God commits a murder, trees and grass grow, flowers bloom with their blossoms and the ice frozen on the veins of the earth melts away.


Maybe the glass of a window is just a canvas

and all that is outside, a painting

with exposures and shades that it would be sarcasm to be able to count them or even see them all.

The eyes get tired and with sleep they go blind.

Until the sun floats out of its hiding place and sheds and stains tears of blood from its loneliness on our covered windows of the body.


Maybe the glass of a window is just a canvas 

and all that is outside, a painting

Eyes are the lenses of cameras

and memories are just files that linger in our brains like mushrooms in the earth.

If you don't move around in the painting, you'll just see the same patterns over and over, and you'll complain.

But we're all photographers and filmmakers

or maybe just soulful robots?

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