The Painter

The painter

Beauty is in the

Eye of the beholder

Often what is said and heard

Ravishing begins from nothing

A blank bare canvas

Raw materials used to mold

The vision from within

The beholder, the end result

Beauty begins in the heart

Of the designer

Full of liquidity

Not a solid image at first

Streaming from the pores

Screaming to be alive

Only as a whisper in the mind

The beat of the heart

Bowing to its command

The outlines are a blur

To the artist

A feeling of what should

Be captured, made permanent

At its birth, our birth

A vacant canvas

Only a draft of refinement

Shaped by the skilled artisan

Life decides what should be ours

In time, the brush falls to our

Own hand

The selection of materials

Is ours to paint the impression

Of what will become

Freehand we begin

Breathing in, taking our tools

Using colors we believe will

Be our greatest work yet

Mixing the paints to compose

Individuality, originality

It comes to be the work

Of a novice, still beautiful

But not the end result

Experiences smear the paint

While wet, not yet cured

We mix to fix the areas

Wiped clean by the showers

Of life

Our concoction is different in shade

Molded by the correction in course

This happens time and again

As the paint dries and smudges

Practicing the blending

The maturity, the involvement

Only a glossy seal will be the finish

At the end of the canvas life

Until then, ever changing it can be

As the blur comes to its finale

The colors merge thoroughly full

To reveal a life’s course

The artisan has constructed

Beauty at its finest

It has shown itself, ourself

Over time

And the sealant is spread

To dry and preserve

The grace that was at first

Envisioned in the heart of

The painter.