Painter

a poem by Steve Sloan

I dreamed once I was a painter,
And in my smock became a creator.
A beautiful scene I’d ponder and stroke,
Divine inspiration or mirrors and smoke?

The canvas bore an awakening Spring,
Yawning green grass and birds to sing.
Then in a meadow of rugged course,
I fashioned a proud and prancing horse.

This art was mine to shape without ration.
It came to life through my own passion.
I slept on for days, many more nights,
I wore on my brushes, painted new sights.

Now all too fearful my visions will stray,
The paint draws me closer, I dabble in gray.
The sweep of my hand, it withers and falls,
The moment goes past – I see only walls.

So fleeting is talent? May think if one dares.
Then what lies beyond it, empty-eyed stares?
Such poison imprisons, it snarls with delight.
Another soul snatched in the darkest of night.

Yet what is to worry as clouds threaten by?
They always relent to the blush of the sky.
And who sees the stars or sun or moon,
When seeking an end which translates as doom.