Once upon a time a poet and a painter sat beside
What a beautiful combination to address.
Not like a poetry or a sketch.
As it seemed more like an art flawed at its best.
That is always beautiful to survive.
Out of the context and out of time.
"What is your favourite colour?" the poet asked
"Violet, the painter was a bit sharp
Don't you find violet poetic enough to say something ?" He asked
The Poet paused and looked up at the sky
"I do, it's the half brother of the dark blue"
"Blue indeed! " The painter remarked
"violet is bright and still so dark.
It covers up the canvas like no other, he cued.
I doubt if it hides some truth"
"Truth?" The poet exclaimed and aimed at the bones
"It is hard and unlovable and sorrowful and bright
But for sure it is mysterious everytime you look at it with your eyes."
"Eyes! I love that," the artist picked up the pencil and began sketching a pair of eyes on the tissue.
He asked the poet "what do you see in here?"
"I see sadness and tears, the poet answered
Do you like to hide your fear? "
"First concentrate here" , the artist pointed to the piece of his art and emphasized,
"I see shadows swallowed down the strokes of this shallow lead
But everytime it forms something deep... How?"
And the painter paused to admire it.
The poet broke his admiration and said
" You hide shadows of fear behind this stroke, you call it a shallow lead but it knew from the beginning how this sketch will go."
" You think you know me well? "The painter loudly spelled
" F-e-a-r I can say it out loud and express it without a word to shout, just at this one stroke,
But you, can you sell your fear without folding them into other enchanting rhymes that choke? "
The poet knew someone was right.
But now was the question to put away the pride.
" I see struggle in violet full of shades of lows and high , something that is more a part of me that I want to leave, drift and hide "
" I see that too, so I try sketching it down and forget. I see unlove in violet like you quoted before. Maybe I diverted from that because I hid fear to my core, "said the painter cooling for sure.
" Then let's bare each for a while, tell me what you think of unlove that your violet soul hides? " the poet questioned
" It has nothing to offer but itself. It is formed by mixing but as a whole it remains unseen and unread," replied the painter
"Or maybe it tries to portray itself so dark outside that nobody can penetrate to see what beauty it really hides" added the poet.
"But do we want to hide? Like when we sketch or compose, don't we want a bit of our lives to be displayed somewhere to not be ignored." Asked the curious artist
"No," said the poet, "I think we're more like violet. We want to be noticed and are noticed but fail to receive the love for we cloud other people with our clean sketch and big words."
"We stand out of them all.
Which is what we love but we know it is not all that we can want" the artist added.
"You know sometimes my own paintings haunt me if I do not do justice to them, do your poems do the same?"
" They do, if left incomplete but once completed they provide me relief," answered the poet
"Same," agreed the painter and asked "But why can't we get over perfection leave the soul thing apart"
"Maybe it is a way we try to hide our personal insecurity over our success. On a random night, when we realise that we still are one of those who are liked for what we display but unloved because we are imperfect in ourselves , " Said the crossed poet.
So' unloved', wasn't it, give me one word that you think also goes unloved without perfection ," asked the painter.
" my Art... I guess, replied the poet
Yes art is apt
Admired when hacked
Hated when lacked
Sold when undesired
Created when ruined "
"And best when silent," added the painter
"Yes, best when silent," agreed the poet
And they smiled silently at this unrythmic ending, but they wanted to leave it there, imperfect as an art is supposed to be, imperfect like they were , so they shook hands and went away
For they knew that another art was created
This time, silent with unwanted words
And no matter how incomplete it seemed, filled with flaws, chaotic it would gleem.
It won't haunt them
They left fear of imperfection numb
Like a crime
that was raw and shady as violet
But beautifully mixed, matched
And done