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The Painted Garden This work is considered exceptional by our editorial staff.

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Thick, grey clouds painted themselves
Over the cerulean blue sky,
Dragging cold, graceful shadows
Across the once vibrant land
In confident brush strokes.

Willow branches empty of leaves fall limp,
Dripping like watery paint
Onto the arched bridge,
Its alabaster planks streaked
A deep, foreboding hue.

Beloved water lilies succumb,
Icy water contaminating and
Drowning pale pink petals,
Their verdant pads receding into frigid,
Somber depths of muddled oil paints.

Wind whistles through vacant limbs,
Lifting stubborn leaves and powdered snow,
As sturdy trunks creak like old easels
And ripples whisper on the pond’s surface,
A solemn sound traveling undisturbed.

Tall grasses bow under icy blankets,
Falling in rounded mounds like unused paint
Against resting trees with rough bark,
Surrounding an empty clearing of fresh dirt
Like admirers of a work of art.

Weak rays of gold delicately
Accent the dull ground with a gentle hand,
The contrast drawing the eye
To look upon the artist’s resting place,
Alight with a dazzling, pearlescent sheen. 




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HereSheIsThis teenager is a 'regular' and has contributed a lot of work, comments and/or forum posts, and has received many votes and high ratings over a long period of time. said...
today at 9:59 am
Wow, this is an amazing way to portray Monet's death — your descriptions of the dying garden are rich and beautiful, and you masterfully weave in comparisons to a painting all the way through. Anyone can feel the sadness of this poem.
 
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