Moments of our lives recorded,
as fast as they occur.
Not with words or numbers,
Not letters, film, or charts
but behind the great broad paint brush strokes
on a canvas, in our hearts
From the moment when we breathe in life,
and cry out joyous fear,
the brush begins its wayward dance
across a sea of white.
each choice made, left or right.
We grow and learn and see the world
it’s darkness and it’s taint
and every time our frail heart breaks
blood splatters in the paint.
The brush moves on
as if those tints of red, now swirling
had for this piece, always mattered.
The brush dips quickly, in and around
lapping up its paint.
Each season change accelerates
the brushstrokes of our fate.
Our existence stretching onward
further than we at first conceive,
And as age clouds our eyes in life
the canvas we can see.
Those lucky enough to see the work,
In it’s not-quite-finished state,
far to often fall distracted
and the canvas unperceived.
Distracted by the paint supply
“What happens when
the pots run dry?”
They then begin to seek, and hope,
despite pain or circumstance,
Just another heartbreak now,
refill the pots by chance
to endure yet one more injury,
to feel the pains of life.
To fill the paints of life…
As the brush concludes its gracious dance
across the canvas of your soul,
you’re taken from this earthly realm,
and in that moment shown,
the one who held it all along,
the brush that saw your life,
this painter of divinity
the artist bathed in light.
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