Hope, the Paint Mover

HOPE, THE PAINT MOVER The patterned palette clasping the melted rainbow doesn’t take time to dry as streaks of colored bone if the amateur painter waits long and doesn’t know how to choose the colors fast and select their tone. The blank canvas waiting silent on the slanting easel, the unpainted bare face wrinkles in creeping wet air if the unsure moody painter hesitates awhile to tell the dormant imagination to make the motif in color. The hued palette, the waiting canvas and the painter turn into a useless unlinked trio in the pursuit of art if they can’t find for their purpose prime paint mover, the camel haired innocuous painting brush to start. The brush comes alive in the painter’s nimble fingers, paints from the pliant palette with ardor it captures. The face of charming canvas glows in collage of colors, in surreal art form the nebulous imagination appears. When winds of stormy time abrades life’s canvas bare how long the painted rainbow will last you’ve no clue. If all the colors start to melt in the torrents of despair in color of future dip the mind’s brush hope gives you. October 9, 2018