1. Quiet and meek,
the painter feels blind,
the colors
trying
to consume them.

2. The oil sits on their fingertips
grasping shaking hands,
listening to
the mumbling
worried for their future.

3. He phases through street corners,
delving his soul deep within our lives
our cubicles,
our corporations,
he is the only one who really sees them.

4. Hungry, they thrive to devour fascination
to munch down curiosity,
cornering ideas like fresh prey
but they also starve,
hungry for just
one meal.

5. Winter nicks and summer smacks,
she holds the world in her palms
grasping a lense,
the mountains cascade at her feet
bounding into the camera.

6. Words flow,
like heavy rain
shouting as they hit the canvas
blue lines dictate their
fall
they nestle into their place,
cold.

7. Pouring seams,
screaming machines grasping their hands
intertwining them
through fabric seas.

8. Kneeling at the river,
the color cusps the water,
gently blossoming into roses
smiling, yet shaking.

9. Buried with his dry eyes,
his wet visions
lay with the dirt.

10. Looking up,
they raise their hands
to all those with eyes that see, that feel
the colors replacing their brains
their minds.