Your Poetry Dot Com - The Painting

1.
A painter paints with brushes made of life,
He captures all he sees within the scope of his small canvas.
He captures love,mystery,pain,and hope.

My canvas is my mind-it is vast-larger than the grandest landscape
More immense than the most breathtaking seascape.

For I am the painter of words and love is my brush,
For love is the essence of all things.

Today-in the yellow heat of the summer sun-where all is growing and thriving
I will show you the first poem,how it was written,and how it has never ended.
Walk silently with me as I paint-as I sing-as I live.

Walk with me silently as the warm breeze touches every nerve of your outward self.
Breathe in the quiet truth of today and exhale the wistful dream of tomorrow,
Now breathe in the past,from the first of life-to the end of the future.
(Close your conscious eye)
Open your soul and feel God.

Christians,Hindus,Jews,Shintos,Buddhists,Wiccans,and Islamists-
Feel the heart beating deep within yourselves.
I am independent of you,yet I am you,
I am seperated from you,yet I am connected to you.
I would hate you,though I would hate myself.

We are parts of a whole,broken peices of one soul,
All created in the image of -love,genderless and colorless.
I paint you all--you who are me.

This was the first brushstroke.

2.
Next I paint war,the loss of innocence,the minstrel of blood,
That poet of cowardace and heroism-reality and death.

See our young lying motionless upon deaths acrid breast,
Why do they die?

Do they die for wealth,oil,land,mothers,fathers,wives,children,or greed?
They die for love--the love of these things.

They sing the songs of freedom marching happily to sadness,
For the feuds of their elders-they die for our failures.

Their young faces,(confident and confused),die for what we teach them is right.
Their bones are scattered through our histories,never at rest-never at peace.

We bring them to life to teach our children--the right thing to do,
We unearth them to give us a reason for death,a reason to die,for liberty.

If we asked them,our specter children,what did you die for?
They would reply simply------Love.

This is the second brushstroke.

3.
I hear you in the darkness-lying alone----thinking,
Creating your own paintings,your own songs,your own life,
Filled with the love of oneness,the love of singleness,of life,
Wanting-ever wanting,the touch of solitude,to explain the unexplainable.

Listen to the thudding of your heart,the soft breath in your lungs,the blood racing through your veins,
Knowing all the while that you are alive,and that love made you,
In the silence of the night where creation is begun.
Where war is conceived,where lust is awakened,where love is born.

Love is all things,all that we see,all that we feel,it is everywhere.
Love was the first poem,for love is everything,and neverending,
For the first soul is eternal,and we are but shards of that whole.

This is the final brushstroke,my final word---love.
It is all that we have been,will be,or shall endever to be,
Even hate is born of it.

This is my painting,my song,my life.
Yours will differ,for mine is but a small brushstroke in the vastness of time,
We all paint a portrait of ourselves,from the first to the last,we have all painted,
It is never finished,this mural of humanity.

We will part-you and I,
I have painted my poem in the yellow heat of the summer sun,
Now you will paint,and mabey I will walk quietly and listen for awhile.

This poem is Copyright © slayer_015