The poet put his paintbrush down
The poet put his paintbrush down
And gently packed his easel
For today he had painted many words
Both in and out of season.
He felt the urge to touch it up
To add a little here or there
To add those finishing touches
Before delivering it to the gallery.
But he overcame the urge
To improve on what nature sprung
To paint again over the sketch
Adding layers of oil and acrylic.
The first breath of God is simple
The first line drawing sublime
When the soul has committed to paper
It’s important to allow the spirit to shine.
Some poets hammer out their poems
Like a sweaty smithy in the forge
Belting out words, bending the verses
Over the heat of a raging inferno.
Some on the other side see
The verses slip up like a spring
The murmur of fresh running water
Freedom valued over everything.
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