154. The Artist
The Artist
I did not know what I expected
at the other end of the cave.
But it was not what I found.
At the last crystal there were urns,
purple and red and yellow,
the light shone off the paint
that had carelessly dripped
down these urns like honey.
And there, under the glowing light
was a man with a long dark beard
and wild eyes the colour of the night.
He was on his knees, painting,
wild slashes of his brush
and hands that were old,
yet still strong.
But there was something
about his presence,
a pride mixed with a strange fury.
I hesitated for the briefest of seconds
but it was too late to run.
He had already seen me.
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