Wisps of cloud. Harsh sun.
A tree bows before the wind.
Break. The peak rises.
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The Endless Gallery
I hadnโt felt this moved by a painting in decades. Each tilt of my head brought a different perspective of swirling color. Waves of red swept into eddies of ochre oranges and sulfuric yellows. The longer you looked at it, the less any of the colors wanted to stand still. It might have shown a sunset, or the thin skin of a star. I ached to possess the skill the artist so clearly had possessed. The command of colors, of emotions. All placed on canvas by merely human hands.
By Bryan Brady3 years ago in Fiction
Thoughtless Monkey Moon Path ๐บ Haiku๐บ๐บ๐บ๐บ๐บ๐บ๐บ๐บ๐บ๐บ๐บ๐บ๐บ๐บ๐บ๐บ๐บ๐บ๐บ๐บ๐บ๐บ๐บ๐บ๐บ๐บ
๐บ๐บ๐บ๐บ๐บ๐บ๐บ๐บ๐บ๐บ๐บ๐บ๐บ๐บ๐บ๐บ๐บ๐บ๐บ๐บ๐บ๐บ . . . . . . . . . Renounce Worldly Things . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .. . . . . . . . Exertion Of Thy Own Will . . . . . .
By SAMURAI SAM AND WILD DRAGONS ๐๐ a day ago in Poets
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