The Painter

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the canvas is decked in a cloth of color
patches of reds and dashes of blues
that breathe into the chalk-white canvas
a new life of brilliant radiance.

Looking out the window
at the onyx-black storm sky
and at his charcoal-covered hands
the artist decides this will not do.

So he changes his mind and takes the brush
Begins to splatter paper with green paint
That streaks along the bottom
And mixes with drops of water that trickle down.

He paints the top an emotional mix
Of violet and lily-rose and bloodshot red
a violent sunrise of fiery blood and flame
that enflames the canvas with his passion.

He draws towers in the background
Like the ones around his apartment
Black and grey and bleak, they call and
lure him with the promise of money.

But he will not go. He will stay. He will paint.

So he put down the brush and takes his hands
Dips one finger in yellow and another in white
And begins to paint the canvas
With a yellow smiling sun and white puffs of cloud.
He paints, amid curlicues and dabs, a thread of hope.

He is done.





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