The Artist’s Conscience

The colours of this portrait tasted vile.

He looks away, into the grey.

Walk forward and the colours move with you:

Blue brown blue brown

outline.

The landscape doesn’t change:

blue brown blue brown

Into the void he goes.

There’s fire in this horizon:

blue brown blue brown

He picks up his speed, sprinting to touch the flaming sky;

it swirls with the white of brewing precipitation.

Stops.

No more blue brown blue brown

no more brush against white.

I snap shot the moment.

Draw a box around it; that should work.

Hold still my faceless man

of blue and brown,

keep still now while you dry.

Plant some flowers

I heard the paint say.

Don’t leave him blue brown blue brown baron.

Give him some trees, some flowers, some life;

give him some kind of hope!

They told me, to give him a dream,

not just one of blue brown,

blue brown

bring the fire closer to home.

Let him lick the embers;

let it rain down on him;

fill the void, artist, fill it, that’s your job!

Give him ambition in the flowers around him,

give him grass to spring his step,

they told me, no more-

no more blue brown blue brown

you’re torturing the poor man.

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