The Palette Falls Short

From behind the old, eternal hills

The dawn spills and stills 

Me and my stance

And I wait, for just a glance.

Upon the dewy grass

With an easel and a canvas

I open the wooden crate

Full of paint for a portrait.

Splish-splash, I splatter across

The million hues in criss-cross.

The reds, the blacks, the blues

All on my hands and through.

 

But I try and try and fail

Myrids of colours fall pallid and vain 

When juxtaposed to you,

Its merciful to let them wash away in rain,

Down the drain, down the drain.

Thus I was perplexed, its true

For now I must find something new.

I know not sculpting, nor dance

So I turned to something, not by chance.

 

I dipped my quill

And sort to write.

It looked not good

So I had to type. 

Splish-splash, I splatter across

The million hues in criss-cross.

The pinks, the greens, the blues

All on my hands and through.

Now high, now low

Thy soothing voice

In sooth, doth move my quill.

And thus it sings of you

At times, and oft it

Makes me thrilled.

From behind the old, eternal hills

The mist swims and chills

Me and my bones

And I wait for home.

Where the shadow of the stand

Moves faster than my hand.

 

Where, in a corner, I shall hang this portrait.

Such is life, such is fate.

- By G.

At midnight, 18th, rang the bell

Proclaiming

This poem is for Double L