It's Still Life

Channelling Goya’s Pinturas Negras

He’s in an abyss only known
in a poet’s dream
of eternal foreboding.
He stands before a wall
in his common guise,
straight as a sentinel corn in a field.
And he paints
strokes of thunder’s crash,
a shroud of twilight’s black dim
around moonlight’s rim.
It’s a secret memory
of darkness loyal to the moon,
of returning roads and scents
of moulding leaves.
It’s Goya’s black and blacker.
Fourteen frames
of gloom’s sharp exultation.
Fourteen views
of humanity’s doom.
And he cries at the end of
six thousands steps, there
where he felt
the smallness of his world.

Some artwork is created using Midjourney AI, and is identified as such in the ALT text or captioned. Images are copyright and not to used without permission, which I willingly give when asked, and when not for commercial use. Imagery and poems/prose ©Misky 2006-2024.