The page flashes white,
A canvas blank, white sheets
Vacant and desolate.
Bare of art, of poetry.
An emptiness that's yet to be filled
A poem that's yet to be composed
Words yet to be written
A story yet to be told.
Now a hand moves to create
A stoke, a line
Holding a brush, a pen
The swords of art.
The canvas slowly fills up
A pallet full of colours
A glossary of words
But the art is yet to be delivered.
The fingers moves and paints.
They write, draw and create
Choosing with caution
For the eyes of their lover, they must paint.
However, soon anger courses
Through the delicate hands
A blue where it should not be
My facade has gone too long, you see
I donot want to paint the sea
Ocean foam, shining on its surface
The waves dancing on the beach
Nor the sky smiling down at me.
My strokes should create the sand
Lightened in places some, dark shadows in others
Waves in the the desert
The dance of the golden dunes.
Light, illuminating the world
The piroute of the rays
Among the dust
High noon? Or the brink of dawn?
Eyes like that the autumn sun, at meridian
Rays drifting down the ether
Through the fonds
Fluttering down the maple leaves.
A star being formed
A red, a golden brown
As the beam basks on its surface
A summer fairy bringing it's warmth.
YOU ARE READING
Penitents Rose
PoetryThere's something exquisite about flowers, especially the rose. No matter what the color it is, no matter how beautiful it is, it can't exist without the thorns beneath. Flowers can symbolize love, passion, joy and yet we use lilies to show that we'...
