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Description

A warm, glowing happiness filled him
And the artist's feet lost ground.
Colours whirling all around,
Merging in frisky playfulness.
A vortex of immense inspiration.

The artist reached for the palette,
that was oh so rich and vivid.
He started to draw pictures in the air.
He did not need windows anymore
For he had experienced the soul of life.

And with obsessive passion
He flew through the joyful wonderland,
Adding structure to vast fields of purple,
Pulling apart a red and blue mountain,
Crafting it into the perfect lance.

Only to throw it at a castle of silver,
Which erupted in a flood of green sparkling stars.
The artist painted a mirror made of orange
And as he stared at it full of expectation,
He was nothing but a pulsating mass of fervour.

So two days passed within the stroke of a brush
And the artist found himself laying on the floor
In between what he considered
His greatest creations of all times.
He, however, looked nothing like his art.

His spine stung as he got up
And his bones cracked beneath the flesh.
The eyes barely open to see,
And the hair spotted in fading paint.
So he peeled the man out of the artist.

The thought of meeting the angelic epiphany
Made yellow spots dance in his mind.
But he created a calm, discreet blue
And bedded his animalistic thoughts.
He reached in his pocket; it was still there.

The piece of paper that had got him to this point.
A first careful step out of the door.
Noises of life and death, joy and despair
Invaded his sensitive ears.
But he was determined to meet the one true muse.

A well-hidden thought tingled in his head.
Swelled to a menacing assumption
And exploded as a terrifying question.
Where? Just where exactly?
Where was he supposed to meet her?

Description

A warm, glowing happiness filled him
And the artist's feet lost ground.
Colours whirling all around,
Merging in frisky playfulness.
A vortex of immense inspiration.

The artist reached for the palette,
that was oh so rich and vivid.
He started to draw pictures in the air.
He did not need windows anymore
For he had experienced the soul of life.

And with obsessive passion
He flew through the joyful wonderland,
Adding structure to vast fields of purple,
Pulling apart a red and blue mountain,
Crafting it into the perfect lance.

Only to throw it at a castle of silver,
Which erupted in a flood of green sparkling stars.
The artist painted a mirror made of orange
And as he stared at it full of expectation,
He was nothing but a pulsating mass of fervour.

So two days passed within the stroke of a brush
And the artist found himself laying on the floor
In between what he considered
His greatest creations of all times.
He, however, looked nothing like his art.

His spine stung as he got up
And his bones cracked beneath the flesh.
The eyes barely open to see,
And the hair spotted in fading paint.
So he peeled the man out of the artist.

The thought of meeting the angelic epiphany
Made yellow spots dance in his mind.
But he created a calm, discreet blue
And bedded his animalistic thoughts.
He reached in his pocket; it was still there.

The piece of paper that had got him to this point.
A first careful step out of the door.
Noises of life and death, joy and despair
Invaded his sensitive ears.
But he was determined to meet the one true muse.

A well-hidden thought tingled in his head.
Swelled to a menacing assumption
And exploded as a terrifying question.
Where? Just where exactly?
Where was he supposed to meet her?