Blessed hands that held the brush so fine,
Spoke of stories yet untold in line.
Fingers that danced with vibrant hue,
Whispered secrets, as the canvas grew.
With every stroke, a tale unfolded,
Of passion, fire, and emotions bold.
The hands that painted, spoke of love,
As colors merged, sent from above.
In gentle touch, they shared a sigh,
As petals bloomed, and sunsets lit the sky.
With firm grasp, they told of might,
As mountains rose, and night descended bright.
The artist's hands, a language true,
Spoke of dreams, and all they'd do.
If you let them, they'd tell their tale,
Of beauty born, and emotions unveiled.
Their whispers echoed, as the art took shape,
A symphony of color, a heartfelt escape.
The hands that painted, spoke of soul,
A language universal, making us whole.
I love to paint because I lose myself to it. I surrender all thoughts and just create. When I finish I step back and look at what I created.