The Canvas waits — an open sky,
A trembling Hand begins to paint,
Colors wrestle — A stormy Tide,
Every brushstroke sings a hymn while each uncertainty becomes a night.
The brushes falter, Vision fades,
A dimming Star — yet Hope abides,
In darkened Hall — a whisper sparks,
The Unknown bends, and yields its Light.
The Song half-born — the Breath withheld,
Creation’s pangs, a Glorious ache,
The World may scoff, but cannot steal,
The Broken Bread of earnest Grace.
Triumphs whisper, not trumpet-loud,
Quiet Rings of steadfast Joy,
Though Hands bear scars, they softly rise,
For Life itself — the Artist’s prize.
-
Author:
gray0328 (
Offline) - Published: March 17th, 2025 04:43
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 24
- Users favorite of this poem: sorenbarrett, Cheeky Missy
Offline)
Comments3
A most artistic and poetic presentation of creation. Lovely images spring out as words sooth the readers mind. Truly well done a fave
Thanks Soren I appreciate your generous feedback
Life is the only masterpiece…thought provoking as always
Thanks Paris I appreciate your feedback
To be able to comment and rate this poem, you must be registered. Register here or if you are already registered, login here.