Imagination, The Thing That Mends Us To Part.
#5 of Poems
Theme: you can write/draw anything you want. Even "wind" -imagination- has its colors and if you "know no reason to care for the season" -never give up- then you will achieve "divine art".
The boy sat there and pondered. To where off he could have wondered, he demanded a pen, a paper, and a plot. He promised himself he will write something that shall never be forgot.
He knew of no reason to care for the season, snow or rain, sun or plane. He sat there and thought for a reason to treason, lighting the gunpower and aimed, to his justice he truly proclaimed.
His blood fell into the river, his domain. The bitterness of dreams of what lied to seem, the gentle flow of paint, down the streem, and after death, found his dreams.
That boy may have sinned, but why would he if he painted with wind. Blind to the eager eye that shadowed wind, it has no color thats what they find. but seeless as they are blind, to his divine art, that mended this world to part.