She stares at her window at 2am
like others
only stare at paintings.
But what are those
compared to what she is gazing at, so miraculous.
Her window with the stars outside it
is her favourite painting
and nature itself
is her favourite painter.

Tell me great painter?
Do I end up Happy?

Or was my fate decided the day you chose to paint me black and grey?

No pastels of vivid lush meadows
Or bright sunsets

No; just soft hues of inky misconfiguration
Blurred lines on page

In my dream you were a savior,
who conquered the world with words
and sought a painters sky
that didn't belong to envious stars.

In my dream you were the light,
who checked both shoes before stepping in
and smiled fearlessly
at the monsters who dared to fall within.

In my dream you were a musician,
who gave bats gypsy bells
that lulled the moon asleep
and birds sonnets to
keep the sun awake.

In my dream you were the ocean,
whose waves roared in an hourglass
and tilted gems on
melted sheets of sand.

In my dream you were the wind,
who curled itself around me
and whispered stories
beyond the company of grass.

In my dream this was you
who used to check both shoes
(before stepping in).

A poem,
is brushed upon canvas-like page,
as witter dips into paint-can of creative mind.

Colorful phases get mixed for
perfect hue of expression,
to match their feelings.

Brush strokes, get dabbled
across fields of white
until the perfect vision is accomplished.

And then...after working their craft
born is a masterpiece
like that of Michael Angelo and Rembrandt.

Blessings to the poet, who is in a class of their own.