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ArtistKeep as is
In the silent piazza, Maya stands—
brush poised to capture the arrival
of a train withdrawn from time long ago.
A sphere hovers, as spheres often do,
caught in the weather of eternity,
while statues gaze without ever knowing sight.
The sun casts shadows longer than reason,
as if held in the vice of a taffy puller,
stretching hours into corridors of oblivion.
A tower exhales the memory of iron—
a distant train of rusted dreams,
mechanics murmuring the problem of being.
She paints not the world, but its echo—
where objects forget their purpose,
and meaning waits, motionless, to arrive.
