Dead cow eyes

I want to say something. I want to be heard. But I know at once this is never going to be. You stare at me with those dead cow eyes. Not even the briefest spark of intelligence behind your black pupils. And I know that I will never be heard. Never be understood. Because there's no one home behind what you call the windows to your soul.

You have left me to join the herd. And they all have dead cow eyes. They've lost the definition of love. Changed the definition of compassion. And they slowly stagnate under their own weight of greed and vanity. They have forged a new Society. A new standard of life. And you have left me to join them.

There was a time we would sit together and find amusement in the cows as they went about their zombie-like existence. We shared a light and a color from our very own pallet. But now I color with those paints alone. It would seem you no longer have thoughts of your own. Or maybe you do and I just lack the dull minded trance to see it.

How I wish for the chance to feel superior. But even I know that with you in their ranks it is the cows that reign supreme. For what good is it to see the amazing colors if I cannot see them in your eyes. To long desperately for even your imperfections is only proof of the spectrum of color we once shared.

Others like me are few and far between. Trapped away from each other by huge herds of human like animals. There may have been a time when my kind roamed in vast herds. Were we the cows of our time? Nevertheless our time is over. And you have left me to join the time that is.

I paint my pictures now but the colors I mix are dark, sad, and brooding. What else can I do? To look at pictures of your bright eyes reminds me of the lie that those eyes no longer have that life. They are now dead and blank and cold not much unlike the eyes of the cow. To uncase the colors is to bring upon the tears of memories. Give a cow a color and he will chew cud for a day. Teach a cow to color and he will find Joy the rest of his days.

I want to say something. I need to say something. But silence and despair be upon my lips. I had saved a lifetime of colors to tell my stories. An eternity's balance of anticipation. Stories I dared not waste on the herd, for they would never see the color in them. Enough color to take me well into the end of this life and into the next and still have tales to tell. But now my most cherished, my most precious, my beloved stares with dead cow eyes.

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A colorful story is nothing more then a painting. Just done on more than a two dimensional canvas.
Hang my paintings in your house? Show them off to your friends? Put them in a gallery and talk about them? Or if you prefer smash them to bits, light them on fire, and see if they keep you warm.