Paint in his hair and a brush in his hand,
The world is a canvas, and art coats the land
He's got something to say only paint understands,
Cause he's on the quest for more.
Electric fingertips as she pitzes and bows,
A barefoot musician in stage-light shadows
If nothing else, it's the music she knows.
Cause she's on the quest for more.
The dreamers, the artists,
Broken hearts turned to gold,
We are a story that waits to be told
We are the souls that will never grow old.
And we're after what living is for.
The paint and the music,
The footsteps, the pen,
We are where we're going and not where we've been.
We're voices of hope that come time and again,
And we're all on the quest for more.
Grande jeté, plié, then pirouette
Knowing that one dance is all that you get.
When her feet hit the ground, there's no room for regret,
Cause she's on the quest for more.
His unfinished poems write their way down the sink,
Inspiration will strike, but he'll miss if you blink.
With nothing but words that bleed out with the ink,
Oh he's on the quest for more.
The dreamers, the artists,
Broken hearts turned to gold,
We are a story that waits to be told
We are the souls that will never grow old.
And we're after what living is for.
The paint and the music,
The footsteps, the pen,
We are where we're going and not where we've been.
We're voices of hope that come time and again,
And we're all on the quest for more.
© 2018
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Fragments
Poetry"Tomorrow's not promised. It may not arrive. So why do we waste The days we are alive?" A collection of poems and songs. #81 in Poetry | April 28, 2015 © 2015
