The movement of
the brush
Paint hitting the canvas with lush
Going stroke, stroke, stroke.
He cannot rush
For he could flush
Down the drain, his whole life's work and go broke.
For his hands thrive on the inspiration
To create his creation
That comes deep, from out, of his heart.
They are the strokes of his liberation
Painting a picture with soul penetration
But is, to an average eye, only a work of art.
Yet for him it's his whole life
Full of magic and strife
All his emotions, portrayed, in this painting.
He continues to strive
He continues to drive
His brush, upon the canvas, skating.
For at this point in time
The brush begins to climb
Reminding him of the happy parts if his years.
When he was in his prime
Truly sublime
And then the brush descended into tears.
For no one will understand
The strokes created by his hand
And what each one, truly meant, to this artist.
This work to him is much more grand
Nobody could comprehend
It's one of his most hardest.
A streak of blue
Onto the canvas he threw
Along with feminine colors to paint the gown.
Her favorite color, that he knew
So intimate, so true
To him she was the jewel on his crown.
They lived many years together
Their lives, all four seasons of the weather
Of the good and bad times they shared.
Through the bad she was always in the center
Of his heart, so fragile and tender
He truly cared.
Now in the presence of his painting
It looks as though she is waiting
For his hand to reach through.
With all the time this creation is taking
His whole life, for this he's been staking
To show the world just who.
Who she was and what to him she meant
The years together they spent
Were the best years in his whole entire life.
These strokes bring about her scent
As the brush starts to ascend
Upon the painting dedicated to his wife.
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