The Artist

"A thousand screams I save for you. The artist imagines what could be true"

 

He was the kind of man
Who wouldn’t harm a fly
Abstract was his art
Inward was his cry

 

Taut was his canvas
Much like his life
Fiery was his brush
Dripping with strife

 

No tears for those
That made his life hell
Stroked was his hate
Never mind if they’d sell

 

Numerous are the ways
A man could be killed
He’d painted them all
Each one showed his skill

 

Only an artist
Envisions such dreams
Bringing to life
A thousand screams

 

Hordes of flies
Blacken wet paint
Did the canvas cry?
Did you really faint?

 

 

Reviews

[Y.F.]

The greatest forms of art comes from what we're feeling inside.
whether it's a brush, a pen, a hammer or even a wrench in some rare cases, you can't go wrong if you follow your feelings.
It seems that like the artist in this poem, you've put a lot of your feelings into the poem - the flow is great and the rhyming is perfect.
The imagery, especially in the last stanza, really set up the mood.
I really enjoyed this piece.