His words were like the paint brushing on a blank canvas. Fulfilling.
Creating something that wasn't there before.
And in this work: Love.
His words flowed and once started unable to stop until fully satisfied like an estranged artist who's attic suddenly clicked and brightened.
Once his brush touched that canvas he was unable to stop.
He cherished and loved art.
It was his everything.
It brightened the rainy gloomy days in which he spent countless hours, and sleepless dreary nights staring at that void, deserted, desolate canvas.
Until he saw that spark that lit up that cob filled attic.
He began to paint again.
That spark, that love.
He said was me! me?
I was his work of art?
Yes..... I, me, I was his inspiration, his love, the spark.
His work of art.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Impressive! I have the suspicion that you are really the painting the way you have filtered beauty, talent and colors to this well penned and creative write! Amazing! I love it! 10+++Your great potential in the Poetry World is clearly shown in this thought provoking write! Thank you for sharing and keep it up! This is just the beginning of a long path to travel and you are young and talented! God Bless You! Love and Peace for always! Romeo from New York City!