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Two Sides
The artist, secluded in his pending darkness,
Breathes life into a sleeping canvas
Picks up his restless baton, and with it
Conducts a symphony of colors
A serenade of reds, yellows, and greens
He strikes, and down come the booming blues
Whose bellowing low notes splash across the sky
An upward jerk, and out spring majestic purples and reds
Creating buds of whistling softness
Then bloom into a magical melody
Singing like a flute before dawn.
That artist; he creates his stage
With one stroke, he brings his plan together
His mind pours out into his hand
The orchestra follows his every command
“More green, more orange, more red!” he’d say
And then the band begins to play
A splash, a wave, a whirl of life
Comes from the artist’s hand
And with a final wisp of hue
Bows to absence, and will begin anew.

The artist, returning to his darkness
Will generate light, and with a new canvas
Reaches for his baton
Already knowing something is wrong.
He taps, and begins to command
But the orchestra falls with the swipe of his hand
The reds came to early, the greens wildly fly
Blues and oranges begin to collide
A revolting sound begins to form
Something stirs within the artist’s heart
He spies the monster atop his art
It has no soul, it’s only black
And charges the orchestra with a solemn attack
He watches, as his hand moves on
Feeding the monster that destroys his passion
It has to end, he finally decides
And with one last swish, he ends it all
Drops the baton, and then
Runs from his broken serenade
But not for long; he’ll return again.

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