The brush stroke is smooth but not silent

The colors clear and vibrant

Every part of the rainbow is there

Every splotch will declare

Its presence, its color, its story

 

It is beautiful, but not finished

It is not framed, but distinguished

Over the years, layers mount

So many that one cannot even count

Where did the colors go?

 

They have nearly disappeared

They are not visible even if one peered

The brushes are worn now

More than one should allow

Where did the colors go?

 

They are slowly fading

The canvas is aching

It has been forgotten

Crushed by things that have gotten

To the artist’s mind

 

When will the brush be picked up again?

When all the busy work comes to an end?

When will the colors return?

When there are no more concerns?

The colors are fading, and soon, they will be gone.