Ekphrastic Poetry

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1423-1435


 


Donatello’s marble dirt-


tainted rampant with age,


a face etched by hurt.


 


On concrete pavements, Roman


roads, stain-draped long


Romanesque robes


Not tattered by age, but still.


he strolls on monotone-marble.


 


Ever ceasing creases on robes,


that linger


where his eyebrow and forehead


meet. Hand holding slight to keep


from tripping.  Mouth ajar,


 


I stare just as he stares down


at forthcomings,


a frown of something smaller than he


distant, dead; a friend or kin, me.


 


Anguish in face against the only bold


statue in the room.


Creating passers to look


in his doom-face-frightened.


 


Exasperation-ethereal, moon-colored


separating what could have been


but never will.


Still--I move away, now can sense the fear,


come now to a hearing-heart the


missed notion of death and life.


 


We now cross paths in a distant world


separated through time


stained by pain, I remember,


in my face and yours.

Created: Feb 22, 2012

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