The Inward Artist

A washed-out skyscape where mountains climb, only to be ripped apart by small gusts of wayward winds. Is it that my eye is gray, or is the day waiting to be colored? Sky high hues are contained in small paint pots. Our inner artist is looking upon its featureless soul. That unseen picture needs us to complete the rainbows, fill-in the vivid and half-hidden, to add color to drab fields, sparkling reflections to every window in all bricked-up cities. To daub uniqueness onto the ordinary. To take a different and another look at how it is we, that can wash in the washed out with an ever-willing eye.