It's barely complete, grasping onto straws
Almost enough to give him pause.
But it's not.
He's lost, wandering across a wasteland of white
Waiting for color across a black night.
It stops.
Suddenly it starts.
The pieces fall together, as if drawn by some unseen force
Frustration becomes determination as the idea finds its source.
Connecting his mind and heart.
Like a seed slowly growing its roots under the Earth
The idea plants itself in his mind's rebirth.
Like art.
It's a thought.
It is an art, valid and bright as a Picasso painting
Staining, gaining, reigning, his thought steamtraining
Forward - a lot.
Rushing, gushing, spewing out in spurts with great gain
Breaking, building, busting, burning out of his brilliant brain
He's got
A talent.
Words flow from him like a flushing, fearless fountain
Making a multitude of moments meld into a mountain
He's found it.
He knows what he can do to bring color to the blackness
The white waiting in front of him isn't a curse - it's a canvas.
Although it's silent
That's no reason to mope.
The chatter, the songs, the laughter, the color of sound
Is something to be painted, created, in glorious resound.
He's the pope
Of his own little world, that he'll color until it's a home
He's got all the time he needs in the world of his own.
It's a hope.
Hello, Scoli here! I've never done anything like this before, so I don't really know how this works, but I hope you like it anyway!
