Expressive Explorations

[Written with Van Gogh's Wheatfield, With Cypresses as a prompt] A pareidolic skeleton leans through the cloud, fixated on a small dot below and exhales a swirling breath down at the man. He awakens at the whistling wind around him and sees a symphony in colour. The bones above revel in the transmutation, sound into light, nature to consciousness and man to earth. For now his brush catches the climbing cypresses, sprinkles a flute of poppies in the foreground and conjures bursting yellow strings of wheat. The environmental applause rings out and echoes, as the clouds look down on him, turning away from the mountains, inwards and darkening, and the clouds and the flora still for his leaving. 

We stood staring down into the well, the expectant drop between us, you released a small, round rock into silence. I glance at you and it bounces, cascading off, before gently being absorbed into the pool below. The water begins to curl, up, and suddenly it's much too thick to be water and much too pink. The power of its movement fills our eyes and ears. Rushing and then rising between us, pushing us back, it escapes from its darkness. I remember you, frozen still behind the bubbling blood, that so objected to that rock. You turned and left me rooted to be absorbed into the flow, in its sticky, fluid memory.

A statuesque man sits on a park bench, an image of serenity. His head is full, of longings that will never be met, luck that will pass him by, days and months that will be forgotten, recurrent de ja vu, corridors and paths never explored, injuries that don't quite heal, incomplete stories that no one reads, a hovering bird ignored, and potholes unnoticed. I suspect. As I consider conversation, the clouds empty themselves on him. After a minute, we leave, in opposite directions.