The Solitude of Frescoes

Silence among the frescoes.
From the grace of golden clouds no hand reaches forth;
the figure’s face, dripping beneath the memories
sustains the look without the weight that weathered.
In his eyes, the rain;
in theirs, a can without preamble;
in hers, a note  these halls no longer echo.
There are no borders, save the cracks time rendered
to resonate vogue vagaries into the earth beyond
where roots have seeped into the author’s boots
drinking up the vivification of his solitude;
drowning in the depths of isolation.