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A Painter's Process


I knew I couldn’t ignore
him, his back against light brown easel,

alone on sun dappled floors.
Light scattered on his smirking face,

by his feet, speckles of red blue yellow

next to a dark brown brush
wistfully waiting for a mellow

blossoming of beautiful lush

flowers that shrivelled in barren desert.

His square shoulders now cast
inky shadows on the cold timber
I couldn’t look at the withered hues,

or the dusty bristles that refused

the whispering of my fingers,

and as I lingered,
blood bubbled and boiled

into total internal turmoil.

By morning we reconciled,
he beamed back radiantly,
and I embraced wild
vibrance back into once lifeless

pigments. With a swish and swoop,

paints melted onto canvas,

ringing flutes and warm cellos,

roaring brass and rolling timpani’s,

fused into a glorious symphony.

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