Still life was a blur
<the streets were still at 3 AM>
whist was little wind
caught calm
in a difference between light
and the eye-
still and coming steady,
yet unsettled between a particle or a point.
Line like a wave, bent along the way
solutions becalm the whitened caps,
allay this urgent need to re-
tranquilize together
and sync without dupes,
to parse with perfection
connections hang on,
to now, never was,
still.
Toward or away,
It fades
once death has taken shape
of a relative theory explaining
why you are
still
here
noticing the calm collected
as a safe place.
Painting by Vincent van Gogh, Still life with Quinces (1887-1888) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
Painting by Vincent van Gogh, Still life with Quinces (1887-1888) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
