Life is But A Painting
by Charles R Polonsky
Monday, August 20, 2007
Rated "G" by the Author.
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The master creates a portrait sublime
By using whatís been learned in time,
With hopes and dreams that reach the sun
And a will to fight till the heights are won.
The painter wields a torch to light
The mysteries of eternal night,
Through savage tempests and angry tides
On the wings of righteousness triumph rides.
The artist toils upon his trade
And learns to treasure what heís made,
A painting is built with tenderness and care
From the joy we cast to the love we share.
Art is conceived from the beauty of life
And the experience from times of strife,
From the splendor of a pale moonís rise
To the wonder of the midnight skies.
It seems that life is but a painting
With endless brushstrokes waiting,
We can be the messenger of the sage
And conquer the soulís immortal rage.
Oh, the amazing things we could draw
Of all Godís miracles that we saw,
And heed the cries of a thousand years
To stop the suffering and the tears.
We craft our art by the life we lead
With every single thought and deed,
We make our world in which we live
By everything we do and give.
Itís up to us what the painting will be
For we are the master, the artist, you see,
The portrait of our life is yet to be drawn
To be viewed forever, after weíre gone.
©2004 Charles R. Polonsky