The Most Profound of Art

The Most Profound of Arts

I paint a perfect picture, within an empty hand; I am the perfect picture, with no taker to be had.

I paint the bluest of the pictures, on the sunniest of days, swirling on the palette, the colours of my haze.

I paint the shadows colour true, and open up the night, worship what I know, that darkness brings the light.

I paint the skies that of crimson, the seas that of red; mask the mountains in decay, with forests made of lead.

I paint fields blue as sadness, and mirth the colour rain; the true hint of life, beauty in the pain.

I paint the truest of diamonds, that shine for their worth, shimmering null dullness, impartial of their girth.

I paint cosmic deserts, with sands made of silk; waters without reflections, souls devoid of ilk.

I Paint birds without wings, songs for a view, flowers made of thorns, misty mornings without dew.

I Paint wisdom in the wind, that doesn't need to whip, whispers on the waves, stars instead of ships.

I paint freedom within words, leaders in fair people, vengeance in the pens, of poets large as steeples.

I paint like no other, my brush is part of me, I live inside creation, where life is truly free.

I paint for my living, the most profound of art, master of my trade, house painter with a heart…