The Painting
There was a little painting in my yard
It was of me
I had a colourful palate with a bunch of brushes
I had no clue
of how to mix colours
of patterns that would mean anything
a vision for shape and size
of all things an aritist was born with
there were just frames and canvases
scattered everywhere I could see
I mustered the strength to lift a brush
and dip in some paint
it seemed like an orange or blue
one stroke after the other
and I felt liberated from reality
every minuscule of beauty seemed to bloom
all in one flash of a second
what would you call such an experience?
streak of eccentricity? a dream?
Reality woven neat and safe in an imagination. . . .
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