Painted Faces(Poem)

The canvas
god gave
was empty.

But the colors,
themes, brushes
I chose were not pretty.

The strokes pained the soul
and the paper didn’t dry fast.

I mixed the colors
wanted something
,
Got something.

The palette knife
was blunt and the
final artwork was
like an old umbrella
feared of smooth rains
and metallic winds.

—Drunken Monk.


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