Adding color to my canvas

If tears were an artists colours, then my brush would be my heart. The paint I cry out on the street will be a canvas of release; only to fade over time beneath the feet of wandering zombies. Step inside the gallery of my mind. The only thing I ask is for no rose petal glasses, for my heart excludes the eyes of shepherds, and no desire for review. Just look, is all I ask. As if you were watching the clouds take shape before your eyes. My work is just the same. No vivid detail or constructive technique. Cryptic simplicity; it takes shape the deeper you delve. My charm has stemmed from walks of life, and thrives on sweet deprivation. It could be a beautiful silhouette in the night, leering you in for a closer look. But the chase for such glory ends when the sun comes out, and its beauty disappears. The paint you cry out on the street is a canvas of release. I’ll just be another stranger in the night, but no zombie I will be. I’ll look in awe of your walk of life, and be grateful our tears crossed paths.