The Art of Suffering

The Art of Suffering

Setting an easel,
I began to
assemble the pallet.

There was NO beginning.
I dabbed my brush
in an array of colors.

One mixture blended
into another.

The canvas before me—
I was bathed in tears.

I stroked the mat
with the weighted

So many I loved
ALREADY moved on
or preparing for
their journey
into the celestial
stars lighting a WAY.

It was suffering
that allowed me
THIS moment.
Solitude held my
every sigh.

At times I heard
something ‘inside’ me
sound, “Breathe, breathe,

Another stroke
caressed the sheet
before me.
The brush in hand
NO longer heavy.

The more I painted,
the lighter my ‘being’

My eyes NO longer filled
with a buoyancy
blocking my vision.

I could see the
images in front of me—
FACES…hundreds of
faces (soft skin, gentle fur)—
I held their hands…their paws.

Many times I held their
hearts when I could NOT
get there in time.

Each encounter
past and present
solemn and joyous.

This suffering came with
a price—
a cost—
NOT even the rarest of
diamonds could repay.

Suffering flowed over
filling my person
with a love resurrected.

Paradox?—Of course!

The colors spilled
over the canvas
onto the floor.

I sat in ‘its’ puddle
and became One
with the Art of Suffering.

What a Joyous Masterpiece.

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