Thursday, June 23, 2011

Poem #480

Finger Painting
Dipping your fingers in the colorful paint,
The cold, substantial liquid filling in around the dent,
Engulfing your hand in its vivid embrace.
The blank canvas lies before you, waiting patiently,
Ready to absorb the artistic touch for your fingertips,
And to pull the dye deep inside it.
It imprints a work, and captured scene of the world,
And hangs onto the very essence for years.
You withdraw your tinted finger from the depths,
Imagination burning in the very tip, through your entire arm,
Ready to inspire a beautiful work of pure creativity.
Your hand flies over the white field,
Preparing the thoughts which reside deep in your soul.
Pressing down onto the open page,
You feel the minuscule speed bumps of the rough surface,
The color flooding into every nook, every alcove.
The lines ride a roller-coaster of emotions,
Filling the lonely road with feeling and purpose.
The different shades blend together into the perfect tone,
The patterns bleed into the perfect shape,
And you inhale the joy which emanates from the page,
And warms your heart with every touch.

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