The Artist's Mind

The Artist's Mind

T'was the night that awoke me,

a call from within the dark abyss,

it spoke of a memory,

and the memory was this,

I wondered down the road of life,

in a world hued of black and gray,

wind biting like the blade of a knife,

I tried to make out my way.

The storm it raged about me,

for the strokes of the Artist were set,

the rain beat upon me,

with the brush of black regret.

The Artist he knew the road I walked,

His hand sure and steady,

but the darkness er behind me stalked,

and I feared I was not ready.

Cold and shivering in the storm,

I sought a shelter from the night,

but the Artist brush was far from warm,

and I found myself stumbling without sight.

I longed for something to guide my way,

the dreary, dark so deeply set,

I crawled and struggled amidst the fray,

a colorless shade of the Artist's debt.

Then in my world of shadowed shade,

I saw a light break through the night,

T'was a lantern in the hand of a maid,

her tall steed of black and white.

And as she drew nigh I beheld in awe,

the hue of her dress a deep red,

and it was then that I saw,

the splatters of paint she bled.

The color was so stark,

a contrast from the blurring night,

she held the light up banishing the dark

and red was the rain that fell into sight.

Red. It was everywhere!

How had he not seen it before?

The Artist er so very clever,

knew that without light there was no color.

And what it is color but the presence of light?

What is darkness but the lack there of,

The Artist he sought the burden of the night,

for without sorrow how shall we love?

Deep is the darkness just before dawn,

bright is the sun, so red in the morning,

just as the maiden with lantern drawn,

she is a sign of the storm. A warning.

She is also a comfort for the wonderer,

for she will give her light to guide,

er the shadows of night fall nearer,

may you find shelter in which to reside.

Then the memory faded,

and the night passed,

T'was the calling of the day that waited,

that caused me to arise at last.

Looking through the windows glass,

I saw the colors of spring so bright,

and sighing I let the memory pass,

for here was a day that knew not night.