The French ancestor, humble artist painter,
Oft, I am true man think of him,
Oft I wonder at the poverty stricken man,
I wonder at my ancestors there,
Artistic but in monetary,
I am a true man,
Caught up in emotion,
Yet so strong is it,
I pushes me down a painted current,
And into the painted winds of life,
Into the tainted blood of what was settled, quite trite,
I look into past times,
I weep, contrite,
My woman I look to,
My child I won't spite!
I look to you standing there,
The Madonna in my mind,
But if one were to paint with you,
To draw your dear life,
You are not paint,
But one day my blood and one day my flesh!
Dearest girl, paint with me,
Make life out of death!
Post a Comment
No spam, junk, hate-speech, or anti-religion stuff, thank you. Also no libel, or defamation of character. Keep it clean, keep it honest. No trolling. Keep to the point. We look forward to your comments!