Flawless, lines and
Drops of white
Paint on colorless
Paper, and he
Bleeds it out,
Drenching the canvas
With the bland
Pieces of his soul.
And then, his brush
Collides with the
Cloth, and a masterpiece
Was born, silent
And watchful, holding the
Heart of its Creator
In it's abstract
Arms, and he who
Made it gives a
Smile that shatters windows,
Breaks glass, and hearts.
And now, it hangs on
A rich wall, plush cushions,
Velvet curtains, and he,
He is at home, tears
Cascading down his
Cheeks because he
Was the Painter who
Lost a piece of
His soul.
YOU ARE READING
Hiraeth
PoetryHIRAETH- (n.) A homesickness for a place you can never return to, a place which never was. Previously: Songs Of My Lonely Soul. *** A Song Of My Lonely Soul. A Ballad Of My Heart Whole. A Story That Was Never Said. When We Find It To Be Dead. ...
