Like a sword in my hand
a paintbrush glimmers with red,
ready to squander the acrylic dragon.
A canvas lay flat before me.
My brain oozes with paint as it pumps through my veins,
it slowly seeps to my fingers and drips onto the linen board,
a masterpiece waiting patiently.
Who is art, and what does it want with me?
Numbers blur to splatters,
faces line with pencil marks,
trees melt to a foggy watercolor and roads merdge to charcoal.
My vision becomes pastel.
Soft hands over each eye when life fades to true colors.
A blanket over my feet when Jask Frost rings the doorbell.
A parent to me when young and a mentor to me now,
there is no room on my shoulders but for God and a pencil,
I better get to work.