Pain(t)
All of his years.
He never shed a tear.
Pencils.
Pens.
Brushes.
Paint.
Paint...
That was his getaway.
His brushes would hit the canvas.
And swivel and sway.
He never spoke.
His mute would scare folk.
He spoke through art.
His hands on wood brushes...
Were never apart.
He has a vivid imagination.
The sky, the sun, the constellation.
Feelings attached to every shade of color.
Reds, oranges, I could go on forever..
pain(t).
-radiantlotus_
YOU ARE READING
(Completed) Touching Poetry: Volume I
PoetryThis is Volume one of Touching Poetry. The beginning of a series of poems, inspired by imagination, & my sense of style in writing. I hope you all enjoy! @radiantlotus_ (I do not own any photos/clips shown). January 2018 ©
