Art in the pink, the hope that it brings Wings painted from, the smallest of things The joy of the colour, the mess of it all A pleasure to view, this artist's call Not quite abstract, the painting surreal Based in fact, then allowed to congeal Into pastel riot, of colour and lines Into a many makes whole, artwork refined What underlies, there's tissue paper petals The subject mixed up, then left to settle What was the intent, forethought soft light To please the eye, or just to feel right So busy so active, yet here is still life Outlines overshot, not cut like a knife In the blur there is movement, on a canvas full But the subject is lifeless, the message - killed When you look deeper, what do you see Something different to me, most certainly I see part of you, I see part of me I see a gift, a sadness, in humanity Did this idea form, in the artist's mind Develop and grow, the mind to bind An irresistible force, the desire to create A bane and pleasure, that will never wait
This poem is a response to a dVerse ~ Poets Pub challenge
seanmathews.blog 
Breathtaking… rhyme is subtle and feels just right … a perfect capture of the beautiful oil!
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Thank you.
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Very nicely done! A beautiful poem of introspection. I like the way you start off with the superficial and take it to the deep thoughts of the mind!
This was a great line: Based in fact, then allowed to congeal
… this is what art is…
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Thank you
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You are welcome!
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These lines are great, “Not quite abstract, the painting surreal
Based in fact, then allowed to congeal”
This is how I feel about life most days. It’s a blob of something that was perhaps based in truth.
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I certainly find life often feels surreal.
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💯
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Love what you did with the picture, imagination ran wild!
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Enjoyed this reverie on the imagination and the process of creation. Lovely to read.
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