The Painter

The Painter

She's gently gliding her fingers,
against the canvas' grain.
With desperation in her gaze
she lives a prisoner in a box of paints.

Deliberate strokes calm
the chaotic motion of her hands.
Creating an image of the world
hidden in her brain.

She'll sleep tonight,
woven into dreams,
dreams of masses around her.
Quietly, in her nightly voyage,
she'll cry for a better day.

She'll remain lonely,
until the dried up,
flaky skin falls from her tired body,
and then she'll become one of her creations,
pictures she's been trying to paint.

She will dance with shadows,
holding on to the lost world.
From her head to the canvas
and back in her head again.
She'll be one of the colors,
in her box of paints.