Promises of fruit

A conjuring of light and shade,
this illusion of the artist,
writ by patient brush,
and proliferated strokes
of pigmented oils.

The eye sees and applauds,
and fair enough.
But the transcendent mind
is not beguiled by these
mere promises of fruit.

It seeks instead the shadow spaces
where hides, in misty shades,
the unseen faces,
fey phantoms of the artist's mind.

They are waiting, perhaps
for our backs to turn
then they shall gurn out their insults
at the shallowness
of these, our waking lives.

But if you wait long enough,
and wish it so,
you will catch them
as they morph from black
to seamless shades of grey,
and you will not be fooled
by promises of fruit, again.