Soul-painter’s at the easel many years.
It rhymes my life with poems, music, colors
Rotation of nuances, dreams and shades,
Births, failures, victories and trials.
It rhymes black sorrow with the bad.
Green breathes with nirvana and repose.
Love runs through life like a golden thread.
It rhymes the shades of blue with hope.
The lines disturb the emptiness of white
With all that years, mistakes and wisdom,
With pain, experience and fight,
Despair, rashness, lyricism.
They are about the chance and expectations,
Without one loosing heart in grief and stress.
Indian summer softens autumnal frustrations,
Helps not to think about cold winter mess.
Jun 18, 2020
Jun 18, 2020 at 5:07 AM UTC
Soul-painter’s at the easel many years.
It rhymes my life with poems, music, colors
Rotation of nuances, dreams and shades,
Births, failures, victories and trials.
It rhymes black sorrow with the bad.
Green breathes with nirvana and repose.
Love runs through life like a golden thread.
It rhymes the shades of blue with hope.
The lines disturb the emptiness of white
With all that years, mistakes and wisdom,
With pain, experience and fight,
Despair, rashness, lyricism.
They are about the chance and expectations,
Without one loosing heart in grief and stress.
Indian summer softens autumnal frustrations,
Helps not to think about cold winter mess.
