Literature
Ode to the artist
Colours dance
Just out of reach
Of her grasping fingers,
Her lips tipped up
And her violet eyes
Glistening with wonder.
And today,
So many years later,
When her eyes have settled
And their colour dimmed,
When the curls in new hair
Have fallen flat,
Even now
Those colours dance
Just out of her reach.
She slashes at canvas
With wide brushes
And dripping paints,
Trying to capture
Those perfect blends,
Those perfect tones,
That perfect feeling.
Her works are masterpieces,
Acclaimed by all who see,
But not a single one
Is complete,
Merely abandoned
By the mother who cannot cherish
Imperfection.
And so she starts again
With new brushes
And brigh