Brush Strokes

I created a portrait of a storm
that was raging inside
Of violent colors and angry streaks
It spoke of the rising dark and failing light
A haze of resentment yelling out
Lashing out at the World it detests
I painted my dissolving dreams
I painted my vision which sulked at the world
I created a portrait and regretted it
And so it was discarded.

I flirted with the colors soon after
The colors which spoke of the faintest whispers
I created a portrait of the climbing sun
On the greenest of valleys
I drew the echoes of my heart beats
painted those mild swirls with tinge of red
I ran my brush for the joys it gave
to my simple heart
Its every touch like a tender kiss
Giving life to a deadened skin
Paper spoke out its love for the vibrant colors
And I created Life, beneath the sun, as I know it.

A single night, A single blow
And walls collapse; so do I, from within.
The Work of Spring now buried beneath the pile.

Blank canvas, wide sky and strums of an Acoustic
as I stand yet again with a palette held tight
Colors, joyful as ever, living and waiting to give life.
I pause
Is there an urge to create again?