In the midst of the loss.
The fear.
The loneliness.
The painter felt hopeless.
He thought he would never be able to paint something meaningful again.
His brush strokes didn't make sense.
The colors didn't please him the same.
He could only see.
Despair.
Rage.
Confusion.
Sorrow.
His muse became everything to him.
And when she left, she took everything.
There was nothing left.
Except for his brush and paint.
Her leaving destroyed him.
He lost her.
Nothing made sense.
The misery broke him.
He walked barefoot in a burning fire.
Almost froze in a winter storm.
A wild ocean up to his neck.
But.
The painter still had something deeper than the loss of his muse.
The painter had his inner enthusiasm
That love for art that has been in him since the beginning of his life.
That spark
That wild inspiration that always pushed him through.
He lost her.
But he found himself.
And somehow...
That was everything.
YOU ARE READING
February Ashes
Poetry❝From an everlasting flame, to a pile of ashes in the forest❞ A bunch of poems about how he met, fell in love with, desired, missed, broke, was broken by, hated, lost and got over the deepest love he ever felt. most impressive rank: #1 in poems.
