The Painter

There he was with his soul speaking of colours,
struggling with a mind of million thoughts,
portraying life of memories,
portraying his life in a dream-like-not-decadent scene.

His life in utter romance with his soul and art,
with windows open to behold the best of a heart,
which would not stop beating for a betterment of his soul.

A mind for not everyone to comprehend,
but which had a whole universe to deliver,
for those whose hearts is just not as part,
but the wholeness of the essence in life,
for we are not just flesh and bone,
but more importantly a never source of light.

He was just there,
providing life to everything the brush strokes would find,
a mind with thoughts so mesmerising,
that would go so far apart to other places,
which ill sentiments do not at all reside.

He was his music, poetry, the language of soul,
which just a few would attempt to find sense,
but how could this language be understood,
if we do not look for understanding deep down inside?

There he was with the wind,
blowing the strands of his hair,
as he spoke of words through his broken heart,
which had become a victim of despair,
which did not break it irreparably.

Portraying dreams of life,
portraying the beauty we are inside,
yet most of his beholders
do not understand the language of a soul and heart.

RQ
Moscow
29/6/10