'I'm only human.' was my frequent excuse not to be seen. I didn't like the attention, so I blended in. Until those pair of eyes landed on me and made me see what I could be.
'Try to smile a little.' a masculine voice spoke out.
'The directions on the corners of my mouth are none of your concern.' I snapped.
'I don't know how to respond to that.' He smiles and shrugged but stayed on the spot his feet was, directed at me.
I shrugged back and looked over a distant.
The only known conversation we had and odd enough to remember, to make a corner of my mouth, curl.
• • •
A painting is an art and the painter is the artist. A bond unbreakable until loss of concentration and connection, both they had been troubling.
That was what happened to their faded story.
But as always, someone would recall and recognize those arts, and would call upon them again.
At the museum; his valued home; allegedly hanged at the most privileged room of all.
Entitled only for her.
YOU ARE READING
Artistry
Poetry"Aloha." "H-hello." "-I meant Goodbye." Whenever you create art, your goal is to create a sanctuary of beauty in this ugly world. Vincent is the artist and Iris is the art. #2 Artistry 4.14.19 All rights reserved @2019
