III.

---

I once dreamed I was a piece of art,

a never ending virtue of hues and waterworks,

of yellows, ceruleans and subtle greys.

Such beauty in the strokes by my celebrated Artist.

A picture that takes no such permanent form:

Once a sunset, the starry night of a million lights,

Now, but a red dot in a plain canvas.

I may have cost much,

maybe I didn’t.

None of it mattered.

I was just a wide paper hung on the wall.

Glanced upon by hypocrites,

pretentious admirers,

or naives who did to pass the time.

I could see it by the looks in their faces.

As I portrayed what was out of the norm,

or radiated what was not to their liking.

None of it mattered.

Only One knows

That each blend of colour tells a story:

Whether bright, or a dark melancholy.

Every soft tone mingling perfectly

To finish a life of masterpiece.

I woke up and I was a piece of art,

a never ending virtue of hues and waterworks,

of yellows, ceruleans and subtle greys.

Such beauty in the strokes by my celebrated Artist.

I woke up and I was a piece of art,

a never ending virtue of hues and waterworks,

of yellows, ceruleans and subtle greys.

Such beauty in the strokes by my celebrated Artist.

---