Come with me, there's something you must see
this painter who has painted pictures with ease,
through somber shades of grays and blues,
each one painted with fields of new.
This void hath created everything to be,
a stream of relations to the world you see.
Each day grew closer, as persistence of time,
and this painter has painted each passing day's rhyme.
But there was always a cloud above one's nest,
do you think if reflected you've accomplished your best?
See this artist had a soul and a will to drive,
but 'tis one's purpose to feel but alive.
Too many stories left with an empty abyss,
to die is to truly know how one lived.
If you pluck each petal
you will know the weight of the stem,
and paint with these brushes, an endless end.
Time will take and take until there's nothing left,
but know that you have created with each dying breath.
Though the trees may shed their leaves,
you can hope, and maybe forever be,
a dream, in which, you could always dream.
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