Running the fine hairs against my palms,
The cold wooden, slick wooden, handle,
Wondering which tree was this tool born from,
Vast colors on every single pallet,
A simple two syllable word,
Could not desribe their rich beauty,
My shaken hand guiding,
The straight and steady paint brush,
Lines lines lines lines,
Dark and light and dark and light,
A swirl of emotions on a piece of paper,
Heart racing,
Mind wandering,
Wanderlust,
Or just lost,
Not enough color,
Not enough shapes,
Swirls and spirals,
Like spirits in the sky,
Aluminous beauty,
Sprites dancing under mother Luna,
A shabby shacked city,
Full of sleeping children,
Or maybe star crossed lovers,
Maybe the kids from sandlot,
Cause they never really grew up,
Maybe heaven or hell,
But it's beautiful,
And I made it,
I drownd the paint brush,
Into the blackish blueish pool of water,
Swirling,
My finger tips dip into the paint,
Cold and calming,
Like a ghost of a friend,
I use to know,
Smearing the masterpiece into exiestence.