Prism

Prism


In my expressionism, maybe I'll find a way to get to you.
I could do anything to surprise you
I would make Cezanne between your cones and spheres, in the impossible form of reality, I would build the castle of Medan in its purest truth, and in my solitude of Van Gogh, I would drink my coffee at night, in love with the intense colors of your heart of music and art.
If I can not get your attention, I'll scream at Munch's contorted scream, contained within my emotion.
 You know, my love, I'm not that good, I also have my surrealistic demons like Klee.
Is that you? Can I allow myself to say what you represent to me, my love?
You are the holy woman in Da vinci's last supper.
You and the birth of Venus is the worship of the magicians of Botticelle
You are the perfect symmetry of Picasso
You are a perfect photograph of Rembrandt.
You are like Rodin, in his bronze age, in the sweetness and whiteness of marble
 I suffer like the citizens of Calais every time my eyes do not admire your beauty.
No, my love, I do not want to impress you, but just like Monet, I am able to break the light to make a prism in your water lilies.
Maybe I'm not as modern as Camille Claudel, who in his love of doom, suffered his pain from abandonment.
Maybe I do not have the sad eyes of Frida Kahlo, who did not paint dreams but reality, and yet she left smiling.
Leaving here your love and your colors.
I am sure that Athena dwells in your soul, the only difference between you and this Goddess, and that every Goddess has her Twilight, and you have the light, and the music in your soul, and my love in your heart


💙