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| ROMAN ODINTSOV |
Halfway Out The Door
Maybe it isn’t beauty we’re after
but the noise behind it,
the small pulse waiting
in the breath between gestures.
If I peeled back the veil
and let you see the clutter,
would you still call it true,
or would the shine dull
like chrome left too long in the rain?
I’ve heard the same song for years
and only now understand
what it never tried to say.
Meaning arrives when it’s tired,
when the last chord fades
and you’re halfway out the door.
Maybe all art is that—
a late arrival,
a whisper from the wrong direction.
I still don’t know
what to make of paint
thrown at a wall,
except maybe the truth
was never in the pattern
but in the throw itself—
the brief weight of the hand
before it lets go.
© Nick Allison
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| Nick Allison |
