Mid morning sunshine pours past curtain's film,
Bare feet gently step into artist's realm,
Where old unwashed teacups are scattered around,
And the papers and paints of her projects surround.
Long hair pulled back into a loose braid,
Pale pink shirt long ago did fade,
Above a homemade skirt flowing down from its frame,
And painted red toenails lead each step without shame.
Buttons and thread, sewing machine's case,
Old wooden brushes with years of paint stained,
And cloudy jars full of water, long ago attained.
Hands gather up needed paints and charcoals,
To create the image that's deeply ingrained,
And put it down rightly just as its pertained.
Object in hand over artwork does soar,
Creating a wonder first seen in a dream,
And now it is living, giving off it's gleam.
Composer continues soloists dance,
While under her fingers forms a kind of hope,
And gradually it slows, reached the end of it's rope.
Eyes are locked on their masterpiece finished,
Heat inside knows the fires diminished,
What drove the soul on has now been put out,
And the artist sits back, her mind without doubt.
Break is required after flurry abates,
For the artist is exhausted from forth put passion,
And rest is executed in perfected fashion.
The poem and photos are by me. Sadly, these are not of my bedroom, (I wish they were!) they are from my friend Lauren's room, which also inspired this poem.