The Language of a Painting

Paintings like people and poems
Reveal themselves the longer you stare

What is merely aesthetic in appearance
Or thoroughly alarming in abstraction
Dissolves into a trickle of imperfections
Presenting themselves in their temple clothes
Emerging from behind the curtains of shame
After much coaxing from the intent eyes
Of an embarrassed parent trying their best
To make their little creations behave

Each imperfection is a deliberate decision
A conscious choice of what to reveal
And what to leave out of the conversation

Silence speaks loudest like the morning motor
Of a water pump that does the heavy lifting
Which everyone chooses to ignore as noise

Silence is the language a painting speaks
Only fools hear a mere thousand words
Entire novels emerge with Time
As the painting continues to arise anew
With every passing pensive moment

Ask anyone who lives with books and art
Ask anyone who lives with Time
Painting imperfections on their Praying Hands