The Painting (or The Effects of Edvard Munch)
All huddled in a room
craning our necks, leaning from side to side to see
the woman portrayed, head in hands, by the bedside.
A collective moan, a massive sigh, a sinking in, a swallow for all humanity,
As if the hardwood floor had turned to quicksand and the huddle itself was held up with the weight of mass emotions.
Our feet slowly sliding,
we all stood weeping,
inside or out
for the pain from that scene
100 more years ago
100 years from now
for right now
for yesterday
for disappointment
for loss
for unexplained
inexplicable
nonsensical
mind-stopping
heart-bending
distorting
blasted white
dark green
pure red
deepest blue
obliterating
silence-making
stuttering
wailing
fear
dread
disaster
blasting
hollow-making
pain.