At one time
His life lay out stretched before him,
Much like an artist’s blank canvas,
For the colors and brush strokes
He chose were his own.
Now,
In the late autumn of his years,
He mournfully contemplates the past -
Longing to repaint his life’s portrait.
Sheila
just as your poem expresses...
nice work, dawn...
enjoyed, Art Sun...
Cryssa
randy
(((HUGS)) and love, Karla.
Be always safe,
Karen
luv
et
Christine
The past is history....
And once again you nailed it.
Larry
Hopefully those brush strokes become productive. Peace, Love and Blessings Always, Paul.