Images come into her mind so vivid,
like the mix of acrylics on her palette.
She paints words in swift strokes,
like the troubadour sings a ballad.
She writes of love and loss with passion,
like they were her last words so pallid.
The hues to fit her muse are valid.
She writes from many observations,
with an anguished artist's inner eye.
She colors her words carefully,
how many shades the blue sky?
Forever touching up the words,
she never quite puts it quietly by.
Her masterpiece brings a sigh.
More Poems
My Place
Read War's End the Novel
Copyright 2006 © Ronald W. Hull
5/18/06