A Painter Sits

A painter sits Alone and in solitude Staring at a portrait He paints of society He starts at the bottom, The beginning of time It is wild and unkept Colours outside of the lines Animals, they roam Without boundaries, birds soar Evolution is yet To rise from the core Then he goes on, a short while at least showing the first signs of red with flickers of heat On he goes, some colours cutting short Not everyone continuous, some deaths not fought Later still, and colours go dark Hunger and suffering Stories of the Ark Hope is seen, Although followed by war The strength of emotion Soul from soul were tore Red becomes blackening An oozing dark brown The painting becomes abyss No colour to be found Quickly, we move, into more hopeful times Slavery abolished, creates beautiful lines And swirls, they continue As women gain voice, And independent, they emerge In a bid to fight But war, it strikes, and so civil liberties abided Courageous young men, flee to fight it Heroes return, some do not In fields of red They are never forgot Whilst the portrait shows red, not all is blood Some is hope, some is sadness some a reminder that be intolerant, we should not, And without a doubt, more will fill the space That currently is snow white, With anger and hate But yellow will emerge, and silver too And gold, and purple With hints of blue. So the artist, he sits, Quiet, at work In his studio, he paints Us out of the dark.