Flower on the canvas

The flower, bright, alive on that darker canvas

A beautiful creation of painter, the poet wrote over the beauty, enlivening that blossoming moment

Was like that night, when we met after years

we come across each other like a storm formed

After years of depression, with all the possibility of its becoming the root of culmination

Decades after, as the eras passed

He called me with that half forgotten name.

 

It was like that volcano, slept for years

Was there all the time, unknown of its existence

The fire inside was cooled, condensed into those lava rock

As if it was never warm, never hold that wrath inside

Might be expecting that magic golden wand that can awake from its deep cursed sleep.

 

I hold the moment like that liquid gold, aware and frightened of its getting hard again

The moment was eternal, as when the painter created the flower

And poet wrote of the beauty, the souls can transform

The individuals may change roads, may there

Again come rage, jealousy, all mortal borrowings

But that moment will live through ages

As bright as that flower on the canvas.