Hello Poetry
Submit your work and get some sparkles! Create free account
bykarleighPoems
for i witnessed this death myself-and it brought my soul to life “My painting is dead” he spoke in all but falling to his very death in hopes that the hour ends painting beauty from such pain where i see a man there up above as i do walk these floors beneath the ceiling footprints soon shall walk the earth-the first time she comes from rock-his expertise-forte there in the sculptor's work see what’s hidden so study closer only to the very genius of the painter seemingly complete and the story comes to life like words on a page whose creations escape surface by a sculptor a miracle complete when the very eyes of Julius did witness and i marvel at the moment there it time ? i wonder what do they think of this yet filled with existence-abundant the room so silent-so still holy, holy, holy, lord the heart that fills with spirit and so grasps the divine of depth within the hands feel more than simply flesh i see in clarity the first time of man whose hand does touch the hand so loudly to proclaim the word of God with more than vibrant hues and tones the craftsman there at work he spoke spoke he “I am not a painter”
0
May 18, 2017
May 18, 2017 at 10:16 AM UTC
perspective
for i witnessed this death myself-and it brought my soul to life “My painting is dead” he spoke in all but falling to his very death in hopes that the hour ends painting beauty from such pain where i see a man there up above as i do walk these floors beneath the ceiling footprints soon shall walk the earth-the first time she comes from rock-his expertise-forte there in the sculptor's work see what’s hidden so study closer only to the very genius of the painter seemingly complete and the story comes to life like words on a page whose creations escape surface by a sculptor a miracle complete when the very eyes of Julius did witness and i marvel at the moment there it time ? i wonder what do they think of this yet filled with existence-abundant the room so silent-so still holy, holy, holy, lord the heart that fills with spirit and so grasps the divine of depth within the hands feel more than simply flesh i see in clarity the first time of man whose hand does touch the hand so loudly to proclaim the word of God with more than vibrant hues and tones the craftsman there at work he spoke spoke he “I am not a painter”
Sistine Chapel Inspo
#michelangelo
bykarleigh
Written by
bykarleigh
May 18, 2017
May 18, 2017 at 10:16 AM UTC
Request permission to use this poem