I walk the renaissance of a time – my time, which I have come to regret.

I have admired the art that pickled the minds of the Romans and the Greeks: the marble statues of Michelangelo, the mysterious settings that smiles produce for Da Vinci. But never have I admired my own propensity for that art which hiding, trickery and plain selfish interest carves by the niches of my loneliness. And fear.

This same art had existed long before Plato, or Boethius, or Augustines grand confession amid the narrative of worldly desire. Here it expresses its rebirth in these hands of mine that my intellect would rather abort from my body.

I must be old. I feel old. The ages have reached past seven years and into the Greco-Roman busts at some obscure museum: stoic and ridden with stupor, as marble must be when time ravages its edges.

But for me, the core lives on; it flows freely with the verve of the Surrealists, with the unfinished totality of the Expressionists, with the great mystery of all things abstract. And the image is a woman, is a boat from Sapphos isle. The core is a woman, and the pith was once surrounded by all things sweet. Now, I could but hope that though the fruit has been consumed by anger, regret, and the tally of lackluster years, its seed still owns the vigor of yesteryear.

I ought to wait for and water the proverbial tree of life where her name isnt carved against the bark, but instead, is sung by the wind that blows through its branches.

Once again, I stare at the clock by the bed-side, see its glow in the digital lines of three oclock and mutter at the unholy hour.

How is it that whenever I think of art, she resides in everything that stroked beauty by the brush?

~*~*~*~

The house is sitting, is empty, is without me.

Its three oclock and I could hear the light rumble of Alices Mini Cooper against the sounds of indiscriminate traffic and the brittle quality of the air. Why did I have to borrow Alices keys, taking night drives, and eventually ending up in places where the start of grief had pegged itself to a brunette with barbaric morals?