The painters room held secrets of the misfortunes caused by the painters hand
And sorted with those brushes and paints hid lies for demand
Strokes of envy cover the walls and beings around him
For his talent is that of everlasting life, so grim,
Unfinished and weary, he becomes aware of the agony from his main picture.
Crimson metal graces the tip of his tongue
as the barbed fantasy of his preferences shatter his ability to love
Crimson metal is the liquid that shows the significance of satisfaction
A streak of red across every canvas to show him in action.
Tainted blood courses his mind
It is a sweetness, with the divinity to be so utterly blind
He paints himself to forget,
but also to admit that he is his favorite shade of wine
So divine.
The stroke of his paint brush finally reveals the hidden truth
Of the twisted and broken spines of proof
That lie, so casually amid the floor of sand,
Sinking with every movement of his strained hand
It is a breath of fresh air, in the gardens of Florence that sets him free
And the weeping winds from the trees,
For soul and flesh is what he feasts upon
Of which he now accepts is nothing wrong,
In the era of an Italian renaissance
They scream "Arte!"
"Dove lo spirito non lavora con la mano, non c'è arte!" -Leonardo De Vinci
YOU ARE READING
Touch me
PoesíaBeauty is everywhere. But you must learn to see it. A collection of fictional poems. **All poems are written by me so please do not steal or take credit for them
