He paints with slow, deep,
dark strokes reflecting
his disposition.
Hovering over his
work of priceless art.
Brushing in its life.
His work has rhythm.
A slow, drumming strut.
Fifteen syllables.
I count them, watching,
as his hands create
true sincerity.
The lines swell and curve.
He breathes in deeply.
His art breathes in him.
I breathe in his art.
One, two, three, four, five.
Fifteen syllables.
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You may have noticed some changes 'round these parts, with more to come. For now, since I have a homepage set to Rarasaur.com, feel free to bookmark https://rarasaur.wordpress.com/?p=* if you'd like to arrive at the posts page directly. Of course, you probably come here via email, so the homepage doesn't bother you at all, but just in case...
Are you an artist?
