adventures in dysthymia

Sunday, April 08, 2007


The colors are gone, the colors
that spoke for me. I have
no violets of yesterday,
no deepening sunset blues.

I no longer paint.
I have forgotten how
to give a brush stroke its voice,
pigment its arguments.

I have forgotten how
to believe I’ve something
to say at all. Did I
ever find my words,

ever fill my silence?
The old paintings are dumb,
now, daubs that hold
no meaning, that never held

meaning, for all I can tell.
They are but the life’s work,
evidence of the inchoate
struggle of the soul.

Stephen Brooke ©2007

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