On this canvas that has nothing
waiting for inspiration
at this point the painter
tries his projection.
Takes up his brush,
and soaks it in paint,
bright colored yellows,
the sun is his portrait,
for this is his aim.
he opens the windows,
and so sets his gaze,
as bright rays penetrate,
a numbing stilled posture,
as he stands amazed.
“This project is tarnished,”
he says
“I can’t paint this,”
“For my only leanings
are for better in darkness.”
Great post! I love poetry very much. Free free to check out my first poem also everyone!