And he hung that painting above the fireplace, a sight for sore eyes
He gazed and stared in awe, the beauty was a sight to behold
The colours, the imagination, the appreciation it deserved
He allowed himself 5 minutes of pure dedication each day
And as he hung that painting above the fireplace, he saw his children look
They gazed and stared in awe, but couldn’t understand what it was about
The colours, the imagination, were too much for their young minds
They could only bear to look for 5 seconds each and every day
And as he hung that painting above the fireplace, his wife called out to him
She broke his gaze and awe, and it was time for dinner again
The colours, the imagination, they consumed him whilst he ate
He was counting down the minutes, until his next look
And as he hung that painting above the fireplace, the phone rang out loud
His gaze and awe were transfixed, he couldn’t hear a sound
The colours, the imagination, had become all that he liked
What began as 10 minutes was now 50, as he stood and stared
And as he hung that painting above the bed in which he slept, his wife let out a sigh
He gazed and stared in awe, unaware that she was beside him
The colours, the imagination, had become part of his dreams
What once was 10 minutes was now 10 hours, in thoughts of pure bliss
And as he hung that painting above the bed his wife had left, he let out a sigh
He gazed and stared in awe, unaware she wasn’t there
The colours, the imagination, were now just his life
What was once a passing fancy, was now a fascination
And as he held that painting, up to his face so very close, he let out a sigh
He gazed and stared in awe, forgetting to even breathe
The colours, the imagination, were too much to bear
He had to immerse himself, but how would he do that?
And as he cut into that painting, he let out a deep sigh
He saw his face in the mirror, and couldn’t bear the sight
The colours, the imagination, were now one with him
He placed the face upon his own, hiding his own shame
And as he was the painting, a living work of art
He wandered to the mirror, and was amazed at the sight
The colours, the imagination, he had attained self-actualisation
What began on a brush was now a walking man
And as he was that painting, a sight for sore eyes
He gazed and stared in awe, not blinking once or twice
The life he had eschewed, the friends he had spurned
Were not there to save him, when his life began to burn