The Hand That Couldn't Paint Fast Enough.

O, as she ponders at the earth, in her hand she can foresee, the brutalities of the world, and the means she must use to defeat.

O, she takes to her canvas, a brush weakened from cries, but her hand flounders, and the strokes fail to prevent the demise.

O, on her sweet rose bed she rests, glaring at crisp paint and motionless chests. If her hand were to quicken, her art would give the soul-suckling beasts a kicking.

O, but for now she must endure a globe polished with gloom and little allure; ample in death, and with hope as significant as fluff, for she had the hand, that couldn't paint fast enough.

Author's Note

My first poem. When creating art pieces I work very sluggishly, and this poem is essentially the elaborated tale of my paintbrush and I. I must also add, that I do feel the tone of the poem is quite uneven, and maybe it doesn't flow as fluidly as it could. Hold back no truths when reviewing, thank thee muchly. :)

Reviews

[Ceri]

You finally posted it! The third stanza flows the best I think. The first could perhaps be separated after "deafeat.", into a fresh stanza- though you'd loose that nice O thing you have going on, which visually is very nice.