Incandescent Muse

Incandescent Muse

 

Incandescent Light She wears.

Her reflection blazes

With brilliant hues

Gold and vermillion

The gallant draping’s of Minerva and Nike aglow

Within her limbal ring’s darkness’ silhouette

Her filament is made of the ocean’s vapor,

Requiring no electric charge

Except for the measured, silky pigment she loves

The pungent smell of oils.

It creates vivacity inside, while the matter’s force sustains her.

Crying onto canvas, her tears of joy and wretched sorrows meander and morph into the oil’s depths. The brush becomes graceful, penciled in her hand

She warns the color

It will become her life.

The patterns and shapes are caressed with her fiery spine, and yields of her mind’s design

Pictures within pictures... significances behind meaning.

Decades of pleasure

Repeating again.

Widened eyes host a dance of delight.

A finished canvas…what a glorious sight.

Her light becomes music and to the notes her brush sings, with each stroke, it now lives.

The canvas is the center-stage for her masterful pieces.

A quiet, quivering, lingering note…the vibrato of a star soprano.

The color with which she paints keeps her in this world, and on mine.

The colors are what saved her when time had been unkind.

With her colorful portfolio, she unleashes, connects and intertwines worlds within worlds, so we can all see.

Much obliged…to be invited into such company.

Incandescent light is less efficient, they say.

The new world demands high-intensity discharge lamps, and light emitting diodes.

Yet, Incandescent light is what she wears.

She radiates even more so beneath the synthetic, beaming, white fluorescence of this new day.

They are naught, but props for her ageless center stage….

Ignorantly challenging and provoking the fervent charm of a lioness.

With or without light, there will always be her light.

Time cannot poison, purge, or confuse the talents she has created…though fire can be enough.

Until the stars in the heavens disappoint us, and the Grecian sun and moon forget to set and raise…the sun can swallow the Aegean and all that is left to consume.

Even when nothing remains…there is still color.  It may not be incandescent, but it will be the light of God, which is love.

Her salvaged wrists, her practiced fingers, her dexterous hands do not dare or consider to rival with the hands of God, but relishes in the gifts in which he has given her.

She has used them for quelling deliverance of great vexation and calamity…from the world’s harm and from her own transgressions.

Sister of Athena,

Distant daughter of Zeus

She has reclaimed, and reinvented the mythical wasteland in which our minds exist.

Through color, she breathes the life of art into our souls.

Life survives by color.

Incandescently.  




BY: S. DEPTA