Going Home

He smelled the wet canvas, fresh,
recently finished after a lifetime of work.
He gazed at the picture and words,
swirling in a maelstrom of activity,
blending, blurring speaking clearly from a distance,
shouting in his ear.
The painting stood, head height,
two arms wide,
a cacauphony of color no one could understand.
His left hand held the last brush,
his right locked firmly on the grainy wood behind.

It was purposeful then,
when he tipped a pint of thinner over the top,
and watched it streak muddiness down the length,
like a rejected lover walking down a midnight lit street.

It was purposeful then,
when he punched a hole in the corner,
and cracked the frames' spine over his knee,
a lifetime of work, a masterpiece
smeared on the dark hue of his denim.

His feeling of failure,
at destroying the picture
at letting down the craft,
knew no bounds.

The joyous laughter of the paints,
colors, brushes calling him back,
calling him for another go,
were subdued now,
watching sadly as he slumped down the wall,
a rolled clump of canvas clenched furiously in his fist.