Often art is what an artist feels;
The language which a poet writes.
Their emotions flow as a breeze;
Whispering into summer nights.
Sometimes what we poets feel;
Are colors which an artist paints.
The moments which we capture – seal
Allow us to with life acquaint.
The artist – left to gaze in awe;
What his strokes of paint created.
Poetry written – no error or flaw;
Hatred from the world had faded.
The moment which we long awaited;
Was nothing like we ever tasted.
Photo Credits: www.wikiart.org
Posted on Sunday Mini-Challenge @ Real Toads
and Posted on the Poetry Pantry @ Poets United