His Imprints

He lived his everyday,
with colors and paint;
Making art of this frigid world,
with charcoal strokes and dye stains;
Creating the beautiful,
making the blotchy lines grow faint;
Working hard,
Working late;
Under the lamp,
or in the summer heat;
Until his fingers were worn,
and his joints ached;
Paint collected under his nails,
and his beard grew long and grey;

Now, that he is gone,
they are crowding his grave;
Claiming his bones for the museum,
where the masters rest;
Conveniently sorting,
his best work for sale;

© soulreserve 2015

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