Painting.

Slice of a tree bark,

Carpentered curved and slim,

Tinted viridian,

And crowned with Sable lips

Softly kisses the hues,

Embracing an assortment of shades,

And when it speaks,

It narrates a story,

A story of emotions,

Indescribable by words,

On to a bare, inviting canvas,

Creating long lasting impressions,

Pouring spirit into its blankness,

Painting on diverse expressions

Filling it with a soul,

A reason for existence

The static between,

Itself and the other,

Bears a relationship unique,

One beyond understanding,

One not worth wanting to decipher

In fear of losing it’s charm

And it is him, who controls,

The destiny of the two,

It is him, who’s engulfed

In their supernatural liaison

When he brings the two together,

Attempting to create what no other

Can create for him

A message to an audience

A message for himself

The hidden truth, the broken heart, the raging id,

Anything, everything

‘I paint with my heart’, says he,

‘Not with my hands.’