Pigment And Silence

A whisper of bristle on woven white,
Where shadows unspool into stolen light.
No words are spoken, no voices call,
Yet echoes awaken upon the wall.

A streak of cobalt, a bleed of rust,
Time suspended in settled dust.
The canvas breathes what the heart concealed— In layered color, the world unsealed.

Not just the water, the bloom, the face,
But the trembling arc of a moment's grace.
To trap the illusion, to frame the fleeting,
Where painter and stranger in quiet are meeting.

A brush is a needle, the pigment a thread,
Sewing memory back to the things unsaid.
For when the last stroke drops its shade,
The artist fades, but the soul is made.