And He Hung That Painting

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