The Artist

When little is within her frame
But flatness, blankness, placid scape,
No livid hue surrounds her name,
So she, the sculptress, must give shape

To hate and drama, crashing wide
From slashing brushstrokes, mocking trust
Of people; pawns she will deride
To stir some passion in the dust,

And paint a spectrum of sensation,
Hot and cold, she times it well,
A focal point, an exclamation,
Climbing higher on the swell

Inside her wave, which gathers speed,
Adds tone and structure, builds upon
The lines her masterpiece will need
To charm them all till sense is gone.

Where then, I wonder, is the pride
Of girls who paint these abstract cries;
Inviting all to look inside
Where garish colour, truth belies.

The Artist 2



2 thoughts on “The Artist

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