The Old Artist

A poem about an old man, he didn't know how many more paintings he was capable of before his time was to come to an end.

A room filled with dust, it looked like it had been abandoned for years,
an art studio once upon a time, sometime around a young and vibrant youth,
yet the heart works in mysterious ways,
perhaps a divine invisible force was glowing still,
he put out a fresh blob of paint among the dusty shelves of canvases, materials way past twenty years old.

A heartbreak a long time ago had ruined his motivation,
seeing his true love with someone else, his ability to paint went away with the wind that day,
the old painter stood there in the old dusty room, hands by his side,
somehow he knew still, he had everything he needed to make the change right in front of him.

Some truths of life never goes away,
the old man smiled for the first time in years as he remembered a memory,
he remembered his teacher long gone saying,
the brushstrokes of a painter can always swipe the dust away from life.

This particular afternoon he painted like he never had before,
his weathered hands was turning dust into bright colour,
then and only then did he open the window into the good life once more,
first he left the window open, then he let the colour get grabbed by the wind,
soon he had once again found the admiration from women,
it was the inspiration he needed, a compass in any man’s life.