Rothko's Windows

Terminus of the world crossed to deliver its

whimper.

That whimper put to color...building blocks

lost in space.

A carmine dusk overtaking the blood's circuit...

spilt, spilt, spilt.

Earthen batter, sickly pools dried to raven

black.

Living pigment of broken flesh projected to

the Absolute.

The Void looks out of your windows...its

residency, as levels of formlessness streak

their way up and down them.

The very frame of art itself perturbed as a

channel gone off the air...1970...you looked

out of your windows.

Konstantinos Mark

Reviews

[...]

. wow ! ... absolutely poignant and amazing poetry ...
. i last looked out of my window months ago ...
. i last stepped out of my room months ago too ...