Nov 2018
If a painter
took his brushes unto me.
Would I remain a stranger?
His hands were stone,
cold and alone.
Yet his eyes steady as a storm.
And I, a simple masterpiece
afraid only to be torn.
took his brushes unto me.
Would I remain a stranger?
His hands were stone,
cold and alone.
Yet his eyes steady as a storm.
And I, a simple masterpiece
afraid only to be torn.
