The Scream

Autumn, brings out the greys,
The well-honed triangular edges of the trees,
Their silhouettes light,
In their nakedness,
Against the backdrop of the dark, gloomy skies,
As a reminder of our mortality, the fallen golden leaves
Fading into dark brown, until dissolving into rotting decay,
Decomposing,
Every silhouette, a reminder of some past vision,
As I drove by a tree, naked and bare it stood,
Yet majestic in its unadorned, Spartan, unbending scarred trunk,
It stood there shaped and looking like – Monk’s, “The Scream”,
A little tilted to the right, its branches raised like arms towards the face,
A look of utter frustration, abysmal dismay and fathomless fear,
I always wondered how many of us are looking at “The Scream”,
Not as a painting,
But are looking into “The Scream” as a mirror reflection?
xxx
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