Just Scratching the Surface

You’ve painted a beautiful picture for me,

it’s filled with rolling hills,

a sunset that screams of orange, yellow, and pink,

daisies fill one side of a hill,

perfectly manicured tress fill the other,

there is even a creek running through it,

giving it an illusion of movement and life,

though is there really life within this picture you have painted for me?

or is it just a mask to cover what really lies beneath this pigmented resin?

no matter how long I stare at this picture before me,

I sense that this beauty is dense,

that there is no real sense of anything concrete,

It is merely like looking into a dream,

never being able to see it come to fruition,

my one desire is to peel off one single particle of this now solidified resin,

that has been with you for so long,

I don’t want to violate the work you have done,

so I do it in a way that will still keep the painting’s beauty intact,

I pull gently on one particle so small I can barely grip it on the edge of my fingernail,

setting off no alarms that the masterpiece you have created is being stripped,

after weeks of gently taking off single particles at a time,

I begin to see a layer beneath this painted resin,

It surprises me,

what I see,

beautiful,

rich,

dynamic colors,

that make me want to know all the more,

what could be lying underneath this meticulous art piece,

I am privileged to see even this small part,

for I know,

if anyone were to look at this painting,

they would not know to look close enough at these particles I have withdrawn,

only I can see the spec of brightness beneath the mask,

Each day I pull back a single particle,

not making a slight mistake as to raise suspicion,

though simply,

one day,

I pulled too hard,

alarms sounded,

you began to see my pile of particles that I had collected from your masterpiece,

for I did not want to throw away something you had worked so hard on,

I now can’t see the painting at all,

no longer can I gaze at it,

trying to decipher what lay beneath it,

this distance will never give me the chance to be so delicate with it again,

now I am left only with the memory of those few bright colors,

and the mystery of what beauty lay beneath the surface.