A tired palette of paints
Distressed from depressed days
Sits in the hands of a Painter,
Hands of bone and method
Holding the colours of blood and age,
Or that of a beautiful blossom,
Or a strangers stage;
so graceful and unkept
That is where the Painter has slept
In dreams so fresh and new
Wind whispered felicitously while she grew
The perfect portrait of a petal
As the Painter does not settle
Your petals only seep taints,
The lonely Painter merely paints.
The lonely Painter simply waits.