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The Painter

A ginger stroke of the horse-hair brush
The colors grow vivid, jubilant
But what remains missing?
Indigo, like the deep sea
Laden with mysteries still unfathomed
A curious pureness untainted by mankind
Streaks my page effortlessly
Red bursts
Filling the empty space
With the fiery ambition of a rising sun
Or the culmination of something great
The horizon symbolizing the conclusion
Of a blisteringly humid summer day
Turquoise bubbles and mumbles
Whispering
It is a babbling brook
Crashing against the smooth stones
And my calloused feet
Feel rejuvenated in their healing embrace
My brush dips into onyx
Perpetual night
Covering my tapestry with
A soft blanket of darkness
Twinkling like a fatal gem
Sinister, dangerous, but striking
Purple emerges from its shell
Enveloping the scene
Like a violet’s first opening
After the brittle and endless frost
Lime green nips at my work
Not one to be forgotten
It jumps like a grasshopper
Leaving a breeze against my pink cheeks
The rest remains untouched
Stark white
As a majestic crane dipping
Into a marshy lagoon
Perfection
My masterpiece is complete



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