She was not an artist,
Not in the traditional sense,
But she hated the drab streets,
So she sang in earnest,
Straight from the soul,
Breathed life into them,
There was chroma upon her tongue,
Every colour on her lips,
To make the world beautiful,
She painted butterflies everywhere she went,
Monarchs and stained-glass,
Stencilled in every hue,

As she serenaded the grey,
The town came alive,
Dancing in vivid enamel,
Full of radiant flying insects,
Miniature priests and heroines,

  1. Beautiful. I enjoyed the poem’s musical quality. Bravo 👏

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