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The Artist
Thank you Dallas, you have inspired me.
Blue and yellow mingling with fickle red. Force in absence of love binds them.
An unwise artist using his palette views remnants of promise 'neath the waste.
His medium is brown, his tapestry one of wasted hope.
He begins anew, scraping away dirt paste to see ruts from every failure.
The brown dries and flakes, faded blue and washed out red cracked and brittle.
The not-artist remembers colors muddied with each failed blend.
Tears flow from wells only suited for those without taste for self sacrifice.
He is a poor man with all accounts of conviction empty and worthless.
The breath of time blew softly across the waste, smoothing and evening out.
Only wood remains once again. Warm, sturdy and tested it waits to bare art.
The color flows from bright metal tubes held by the hand of the maybe-artist.
Doubt leaves his talent alone but invites self pity to charge the ranks of confidence.
The colors flow and around him the world shifts. The not-ruts are mixing channels.
Blue puddles into azure, pure sunshine flowing from another shining cylinder.
They flow around each other, rivers and streams without offending one another.
Innocence and passion flow into each other to form a perfect sky of pink.
The always-artist breathes in for the first time and sees the splendor in his palette.
Careful to muddy the waterways, he uses a knife to steady his path through them.
Honest to his work, humbled by his craft, open to the masterpiece before him.
His heart fills with the joy of the blank canvas before him that is already told.
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