Eyes to see only glowing sunsets,
Amid giants of beautiful boulders,
This day arid to warm senses,
As the rock painter dyes only canvas,
And touches tints into colors,
Rendering views not seen before,
Pigment found in some inner vision,
Portraying more than stone.

Hands steady with brush and paints,
Unwavering concentration like the subject,
A carbon copy of mental hue,
To charm a scene into completeness,
Mammoths that only time can magnify,
Artist and aborigine welded together
Becoming as natural as this composition
Of sundry forms.

Hollow shapes etched so slow.
Proud this artist of natural wonders,
Vainglorious world bends an ear,
For gloomy those eyes to stare like dead fish,
Doleful yearning to capture inner substance,
Misery walks in many forms,
As torment stalks with desire,
Embodiment of all that's never captured,
Fervent hopes of lines into colors.

Loyal this rock painter to inner farscape,
Dancing in hot, dusty days of passion,
Conviction born on those youthful dreams,
Gives credence to life shrouded in ignorance,
Enchanted desert viewed by scared eyes,
Faithful in its depth of worship,
Dreamland never to cease with time,
Construction as ongoing as lunar cycles,
Waits for no man.

The eyes reflect swaying shadows,
Dusk arrives with ancient flare,
Not too forceful in its delivery
Of dust devils,
Into stony arena it slowly darkens,
Beckons the nimble artist
Which draws him into this scene,
The life and death parade proceeds,
In time's fashion all is changed,
Shall reform itself over again and again.

This subject stands too regal
And dares man to awake,
From his self-induced preoccupation
With things that will never keep,
But, like the painting, survives just a little longer,
To caress some inner glory
As emotions react to long buried desire
Which can't be ignored or forgiven.

Now this day fully dies
And sends the same refrain,
Darkest before the lightest hour
Is found for evermore,
How to gain access to this window,
A still life by a cosmic hand.

Young once, this painter,
For all the days were fresh,
When vision wasn't clouded
And needing little rest,
He'd set his colors to abstract stone
And paint the hours by,
This lone creation like a child
No thought to how or why
Of him--the message spoke plainly,
But lasted no longer than the fame.

Yet words could not be uttered,
His creation flowed and flowed
When taken inside denuded structures,
Anger speared him to his grave,
He lost what he believed in,
The force that guided life,
In isolation he locked himself in solitude,
Its blackness worn so proudly
That all colors lost any charm,
Gloomy lines and shaded figures
And only dark moons noted
(memories and regrets)
Parted days into nights
And autumn into winter,
His last canvas lingers white.

Three remain--yet cold and indifferent,
He paints only at night,
The stones black and somber
A tribute to Death's winning hand
Of broken hearts and scattered aces
And jokers dressed in boldest of reds
But never cast off like dying cries
Upon a world weary of demise,
His days, like all others numbered
And slowly succumbs to silent shadows,
The paintings left behind,
Too much a part of himself,
All light and prayer stands in colors
Of hope, faith and true innocence,
Distant relics awaiting grim signature
Of ownership in yesterday's world,
The rock painter carried along some
windy path
And waits for marker of stone
Which will tell his tale
Of woe.

Some might happen by those boulders,
In startling contrast they repose
Against an azure sky
In purgatory all remember,
He painted one on melancholy night
A warning to those too afraid
Of what the future holds,
It comes regardless of circumstance
and what rewards you've reaped,
Shall take all like the rock painter
Into eternal sleep.

To celebrate life his gift
But tarnished and broken
The ways of fate,
Yet to never surrender to
The crush of age,
As arthritic hands refuse cooperation,
The mind's eye to focus clearly
And see beauty until the end,
This, the rock painter, was allowed to do,
As shadows fall with day's last breath
Others will follow and try to capture
Scenes that touch man's frozen heart,
And some, perhaps, will glimpse
The rock painter within themselves
Or hear his footsteps under stones
That have no end.