Our world is a work of art created by the hands of god. The fiery golden sun shines straight through the fog. The crimson skies splattered with blues and grays. The mountains in the spotlight on bright days.
He paints every detail down to granules of sand. He sketches the lines that appear on your hands, even the sweat dripping from your glands.
We are sculptors of clay not one of us the same. We all exist in god’s art room no reason to be ashamed. Oh what a great artist we already know his name.
Each and every star is added to the jet black skies dancing along the moonlight path were ever they may fly.
This creation can’t be purchased nor viewed in any museum just look out your window and there you will see it.
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Comments about this poem (God's canvas by yvette carbajal )
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