Artist in Residence by Hudson Aimless

It's sad to think of all the girls you fancied
none of whom would peer inside your soul
you'd fly at me with fist of blue and rosemadder
your beard dappled in amber
sad, sad Cezanne

up in Maine the winters are so lonesome
the palatte dull in value as in tone
all the time you bandaged up your nerves
wrapping them in rolls of muzlin
my sad, sad Cezanne

no one there to tell you you were brilliant
(no one there to tell you you were wrong)
a naked woman standing
with a sheet against her breast
just an object in your gaze
furrow up your brow, now
and measure her form with care
because this moment is far too frightening
and you curse the figure your crude fingers form
you miserable, sad Cezanne

gather your brushes and spit at me
I have always loved you so
you and I will grow old together
with the wind coming through the walls
no one listens anymore but me
and you never weep and the muse no longer sits for you
instead you only sit closer to the table
where you see all the beauty ever known
in three apples and a peasant cloth
and I will tell them, when you are gone.