The Absent Artist

There on the canvas
a chaos of dazzling colors
pulsates as a blinding blur
of tints and tinges.

At an angle, it throbs
as a soft, slow-mo swirl
of a mute, intergalactic
explosion of hues.

From another, it flows
as a fluid light from a prism
into the depths of a micro-
protoplasmic sea.

Is it a glorious sunrise
or a sad sunset, perhaps?
Or mere myriads of refracted
thoughts and feelings?

The mood and temper
of the art beholder,
the ultimate judge, hard-
headed and fickle:

Does the absent artist
make any sense in what
was or wasn't painted?
Or does that matter?