Bebo

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	His Renaissance
	First there was nothing – bare stone all alone These walls so empty, but the artist came and made it his own Colour vibrant, soft and caressing Some kind of beauty shone like a blessing Not a corner left empty, all coloured in Flowers, Fairies and dancers in the wind What was once so dark is now reborn It lights up the eye on a cold winter morn How he worked at it – his craft, his creation This to be his life’s work – his sole appreciation Even in the struggle he slaved at it still An unbending, unstoppable yet immovable will He stood back then watched it dry God saw the same beauty when he painted the sky Some say he made mistakes, slight imperfections But no smudge, no stain here – he’d make no corrections. Then in that instant his own work betrayed him The wall cracked in half holding so much within The drips, like tears from the paintbrush, fell He’d worked so hard and finished it so well. He became a forgotten fragment of an artist His tools not put to bed but buried instead Did Da Vinci lock all his secrets away? That way hidden – shadows they’ll stay Or did his apprentice remember his lesson, his quest You were right the first time, the artwork was a test With perfect precision he recreates the scene His tools, his passion – he’s always believed Brush in hand, he’s ready to go The colours return again – tension it doesn’t show Fight fire with fire, it’s the artists desire To recreate that artwork its something he’d die for.
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