Power and nature snared on canvas,
all that remains of our well-loved scene;
a fiery wet brush that flashed in the sun,
expressions of grass that still dream..
What secret magic did you practice then,
sculpting heart's beauty to last;
dark loving eyes that will never fade,
a supple spirit pinned to the past.
I visit the grave cold stone of your bed,
bring you leaves and lilies that wilt;
if I could just paint the soul of your life,
I shouldn't mind all the tears I have spilt.
Empty are the days you filled in my life,
your easel and brushes lie scattered;
Yet ever the sky plays through the trees,
mixing wind and color to spatters.
Nov 10, 2013
Nov 10, 2013 at 5:01 PM UTC
Power and nature snared on canvas,
all that remains of our well-loved scene;
a fiery wet brush that flashed in the sun,
expressions of grass that still dream..
What secret magic did you practice then,
sculpting heart's beauty to last;
dark loving eyes that will never fade,
a supple spirit pinned to the past.
I visit the grave cold stone of your bed,
bring you leaves and lilies that wilt;
if I could just paint the soul of your life,
I shouldn't mind all the tears I have spilt.
Empty are the days you filled in my life,
your easel and brushes lie scattered;
Yet ever the sky plays through the trees,
mixing wind and color to spatters.
