Dear Artist

Dear Artist
Red is the colour of passion,
And blue that of sadness –
Or so people say.
As if colours ever had
Inherent meanings other than ones
We bestowed upon them…
What are these colours even,
Without a stream of light?
Their waves crashing on pigments
Who are often very picky –
Devouring selfishly all they want,
Leaving for us their fickle
And capricious leftovers.
Our eyes, thank goodness,
Are not so fussy –
Happily making meaning
From the pigments’
Unconsumed residue.

But me, what do I know?
I am but a humble student of nature –
Listening to the whispers
Of its cryptic footnotes,
Peering through the drapes
Of a reticent reality…
But you, beloved artist,
Do not care about all these –
Each Canvas is a multiverse
Of chaos ever growing
In Madness and harmony –
Big Bangs at your whim.
Pigments and light
Are your shiny playthings –
Your impulse : their command,
Their guiding principle.
Making meanings in our minds
Is just an afterthought,
A simple corollary.

Foolish men, in delusion,
Dream of possessing
The untamable You,
Sheer force of creation.
But I know, dear creatress,
Having you is impossible,
So I humbly request
If you could gift me a small world
Of bright colour purple –
Where the blue of anguish
Of not having you,
And the red of fervor
Of wishing to be yours,
Would mix and meld.
Only for a brief moment
Would adorn time and space
With what I once felt
About you…