Art

05^th Mar, 2018

An artist can’t be understood.

Their paintings cry out loud,
Their poems in turn offer a painting,
Their music tugs at your soul,
And then they stand there waiting.

They feel the sound of rain,
Deep within their heart,
Craving that missing piece to attain,
Not to be so far apart.

Apart from rhyme and reason,
From things once upon a time placed on the shelves,
From winter, spring, and any other season,
Finally – apart from themselves.

They constantly wait for the world to glance over,
Wishing to open the world’s eyes,
Wishing every weed would be red clover,
And everyone shed their disguise.

They shield their treasures within,
Beneath their flesh, their skin,
So nothing can penetrate therein,
No matter the sword, no matter the pin.

But the artist can’t be understood.