She saw him as a blank canvas
Upon which to paint,

To paint…


A sense of wonder,

And a willingness to regard
More of his world,
Than his heart


Would allow.


The canvas,

Longed for touch…

The caress of
Her brush strokes,

The moist, luxury
Of her palette,
His subordinated worth.

He hungered for
A newness,
In the antiseptic
History of his life.


She took his hand,
She took his mind,
And she took
His heart,

To a special place,
Of her creativity.

He simply needed to
Trust her,

To wait
For her strokes.

He needed to see
Beyond the dusty frame
Of his hurting heart,
And separated sense
Of love’s true meaning.

And so,
He absorbed her paint,

Her sharpening of his perception,

Her proscription
Of his past pain,

Her colorization,
Of his new self,
And a new life.

With her touch,
With her brush strokes,
He awakened.

He began to reflect,
The warmth,
Painted on him…

By her.

A dry canvas
Of crushed life…

For the moisture,
And succulence
Of this woman…

This artist.

She touched him.

She saved him.

She offered his release.


Opened his door,

Unshackled his

His heart.

And left him…




© 2018 W. C. Stacia, Jr.

3 thoughts on “Efflorescent

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