Stroked

Opted in silence and built like a fence Held by congruent feelings of loneliness And suffrage made by the beauty of a hue or a base. The paint was stroked on the canvas like soft winds Made for an everlasting day of forever. A smile melted on her sweet lips and like so She was the poet of art, misunderstood but not mislead, The closely held bliss of a mix to a powerful word, Developed from a picture that held a frame. Her heart was one that beat quickly but simmered down to a soft hollow. She, was shattered but not completely broken, She was forgotten. She was motionless, a lost art picked up and thrown down, She was now worthless, Or so she had once thought, Her thoughts becoming worth more than she. She was a masterpiece in the ever cool breeze, Created by a clear bright base. Stroked but a stranger to the tip. Started but never finished. Written by Veemo Starr