Painter
Ms. Haiku
Washington DC Posts: 7,279
An artist born in the desert painted with his hands on brushes, and not by conviction. He was born at a time when songs were heard only at funerals and coronations. He moved to lands where the sun displayed shadows on walls; shadows of mountains or cacti turned into steps for dreams. He lost his most recent apartment because his paintings of blue were sold across borders.
He didn’t care what happened to him next if he found a new apartment in a new town, but he had a vision of how life would end. He packed his paints, his brushes, and his espresso cup in a small canvas bag. Then he walked towards the line of land where the sun formed the last shadow.
He first speed-walked through the desert he knew holding a brush bristles down close to his side. The dry bristles bumped against bushes, and needles dropped. They dragged across the mounds of sand dunes, and created tracks. Better than bread crumbs, if hunters wanted to find the painter they could just follow the paths of the slowest wind, and rain that refused to fall. When he walked across certain deserts for the first time he held a brush in each hand, willing what touched his brushes to become knowledge within his veins.
The painter stopped near a gathering of waves. Instead of shadows he saw pinpricks of brightness dance in a line towards the sun. He heard the sound like drums played at funerals, and looked around him for the clashing of swords. Ready to die he dipped his biggest paint brush in the blue water, and painted it a deeper hue.
He didn’t care what happened to him next if he found a new apartment in a new town, but he had a vision of how life would end. He packed his paints, his brushes, and his espresso cup in a small canvas bag. Then he walked towards the line of land where the sun formed the last shadow.
He first speed-walked through the desert he knew holding a brush bristles down close to his side. The dry bristles bumped against bushes, and needles dropped. They dragged across the mounds of sand dunes, and created tracks. Better than bread crumbs, if hunters wanted to find the painter they could just follow the paths of the slowest wind, and rain that refused to fall. When he walked across certain deserts for the first time he held a brush in each hand, willing what touched his brushes to become knowledge within his veins.
The painter stopped near a gathering of waves. Instead of shadows he saw pinpricks of brightness dance in a line towards the sun. He heard the sound like drums played at funerals, and looked around him for the clashing of swords. Ready to die he dipped his biggest paint brush in the blue water, and painted it a deeper hue.
There is no such thing as leftover pizza. There is now pizza and later pizza. - anonymous
The risk I took was calculated, but man, am I bad at math - The Mincing Mockingbird
The risk I took was calculated, but man, am I bad at math - The Mincing Mockingbird
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Comments
you're on a ROLL, aren't you, girlfriend? holy smokes, this is awesome
*promises this praise has NOTHING to do with my personal adoration of the desert..... PROMISE
love it