Bonnard
Hans Klee
Alphonse Karr
Gustave Caillebotte
Monet
portrait of a Soldier
Courbet
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Death awaits; we know its partly opened door;
The light lurking behind; it beckons, but, then,
Tantalizingly, does not open. There is no return;
The candle burns, slowly, to the bottom; flickers,
The empty receptacle sputtering fitfully in the
Dimming light; the clandestine termination, see?
But to yourself, ah, that moment when truth
Does not exist; each barren desire is inexorably
A broken token of what was before: forever is
A day arrived suddenly, fearfully; the knowing
Is compressed into an instant; that intuitive
Flash, see? It is darkness in descent; lowering
Shades, corresponding light; still, in its power
All eternity commands you: the mind now
Is but a stranger; an interloper, a wandering
Thing thrown upon the air; a pulsing flicker;
An instant thrust out into all eternity; the journey
Itself shrouded in deep mystery; and feeling,
Emotion, all those earthly senses are dulled
To an infamous fate, ah, mere dust; to parallel
The stars again, yes, where they once were
The arrangement is complete; possibly, always
Complete. The notion of it is precise: there are
No stray pieces; what once existed has claimed
Its own; and the wait begins, implacably, all over
Again, looking for the niche, that place, possibly,
To regain self? But now, dear lad, there is no
Self; it is only the immeasurable vast darkness
Of the universe; silence, fathomless, nothing.
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