The Painter - Poem by Je'Kiya Hill
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.
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