Category: Writers Block
It rained, a soft gentle parade of water,
Cascading down like someone's happy tears,
I stood, my brush poised on a blank canvas,
The paint so brilliant, its colors so vibrant,
That rainbows couldn't compete,
And the paint was unaffected by the water,
The rain fell from the heavens,
But I didn't care,
I was an artist in the rain,
I dipped my brush in the paint,
And the brush made soft stroking sounds on the blank canvas,
I painted then, images coming to life,
And no one saw the images
Except me,
But I was an artist in the rain
And the thunder clapped like a crowd's applause,
It echoed through the corridors of my mind,
And the lightning flashed,
Giving me light,
But soon, the paint began to disappear from the cans,
And the colors on the canvas became dull,
I tried to revive the colors,
But the colors wouldn't revive,
I cried, my tears falling with the rain,
And no one saw the tears,
Nor the artist in the rain,
But the canvas hangs in my private gallery,
For my eyes only,
And sometimes, when it rains,
I take it down from the wall,
And once again the colors of the images painted there,
Become as warm as the rain
That fell that day,
And I'm taken back to the time,
When I was an artist in the rain.
This is good. I didn't know whether you could pull off the imagery of an artist (as a blind person), but, I think you did really good.
Thanks.
Bob
Cool one. Very inspirational.