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A wide eyed child
Composed of parts well travelled
Watched the sun descend
In hues of fire
Wondered how
The sky could be so different
From the picture books
Was it a lie?
In her mind's eye
The epic sunset lingered
As she learned to paint
The image grew
Til the masterpiece
Upon the canvas
Stilled the breath of
Everyone who saw.
Was it enough,
This pitiful impression?
Did it carry any
Grain of truth?
In despair
She crumpled up the picture
Put it on the compost heap
And cried
There it decayed
Among the kitchen refuse
Apple cores
And watermelon rinds
What was lost
Pursuing false perfection
Would someday feed the artist
Given time
And so it was
The verdant city garden
Bathed in sunlight
Only twice a day
Rejoiced anew
With every ruby sunset
And knew contentment
In the purest way
- COMMENTS
Migbirdalmost 2 years agoIn the purest way — can’t replicate but can try, and trying is recognition. Loved this poem.
DFR1122almost 2 years agoNice.
Unfortunately, many people see no issue paying more for a frame to hang a painting than the painting itself. it's the world we live in... and, it seems, that these might be the "good old days."
