Brushes With Fate

The hour grows late, as hours grow late, They crawl like a thief in the night; With devilish art to administrate, Diminishing sight and purloining the light. Blood, sweat and toil, hot water and oil, Fever dispensed with a flair; Fervour and temperature brought to the boil, A fanatical prayer of both joy and despair. Flourish and sweep, made cutting and deep, Brush wielded high like a sword; Canvas awakened from moribund sleep With driven accord and the power of the Lord. Constructing the scene, colours wild yet serene, Paint splashed incandescent and clear; Memorial collisions of all that has been, New dreams to appear, digest and revere. The hour grows late, as hours grow late, Dawn hides a lifetime away; Candid creations of brushes with fate Are burning to stay for the seizing of day.