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The Painting

Hi, guys! Page Turner here again. It's been a while since my last post. Some friends of mine have had some personal tragedies, and I haven't really been in a writing mood for a while. Also, I'm trying to get up early and get more stuff done in the day. Unfortunately, my responsible mindset pushed out my blog! Well, I'm back guys, and I'm going to be more consistent. I already have a few posts in mind for the rest of the week. Anyway, sorry about the delay. Even though the past couple of weeks have been busy, God's still been with me. It's hard to see and feel Him sometimes, but He's still there. Oh, yeah! I wrote a poem. Hope you like it!
                                                                                                 ---page turner



                                                     The Painting
                                     There was a painting on the wall
                                   Of sylvan brushstrokes, fair and tall
                               Of soft blue breezes, and gossamer lines
                           That spoke of seasons and stopped the time
                                       Of fractals of shattered light
                                   That glowed upon the line of sight
                             Of swaying blue blades and purple trees
                                   Of a golden beauty played in a key
                               So soft and beautiful and sweet and rare
                                That music and paint were again a pair
                                   A man stood before the painting
“                                 What artist painted this?” asked he
                                      “The masterpiece is priceless,
                                         It’s a work of sheer beauty”
                                      Someone who was watching him
                                      answered the dumbstruck man
                                    “That wasn’t painted, sir,” he said
                               “Those strokes weren’t thought or planned
                                    The painting isn’t a work of art,
                                            Nay, nor was it made
                                  But as the revolving globe spins on
                                         Time must make its trade
                                The poor, wondering man walked on,
                                      Leaving the second alone
                               Thoughts of sadness and utter lost
                              Plagued the first one as he walk home
                              There are three, however in this story,
                                       The two were just a part
                                For behind the men talking there
                                 Was the one who made the art


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