My feet flew me back to and fro;
With a blind's sight, deserted corridors came to show.
My old man's heart gave a fright!
For some sleight,
Doors left open is a memory of Atalanta befallen.
I've seen her, not Atalanta!
The painter and her canvas;
Surrounded by friends' mantra,
with dreams bigger than Kansas.
Her canvas was a picture of ardor
and a pirates' lust.
Yet, she was a martyr,
Offered paints and brushes for the world to harness on her canvas.
And oh, how vibrant and free!
Bright colors and tranquility is an overflowing honey.
Bounded, she painted;
But her fate is a traitorous snake of the Garden of Eden in every corner,
She picked choices and brushes as the canvas's owner.
Her marks were thick and heavy storms grazing the tender lands.
Until realization hit and trembling hands seized,
She was a spilled cup of milk for everybody's displeased.
Her mind was a mixed up paints,
Her hands were feverishly fixing smudges and blisters,
Yet she couldn't undo nor conform to her canvas,
A drop of tear was a hole in a bottle.
Her canvas portrayed no more peace but endless battle.
But nothing lasts,
A helping hand is a breath of life.
So I did,
The familiar yet estranged deep mystic waters I threaded.
For she was a canvas of a painter who created a canvas of her,
The painter and her lost canvas.
YOU ARE READING
THY so-called Poetry
PoetryChaos. Madness. Love. Emotions. Lost of words beneath the swirling storms. Pour them out inside a book. - - - - A work of messy-ness. Engraved. - - - - Disclaimer: This is purely work of mind. Unless otherwise indicated, all the names, charact...
