Paint

In a dark corner,
Alone,
Hiding from the rest of the world,
Lies the greatest of beauties,
His eyes shine with unshed tears,
Tears he holds for when love finds him,
On a canvas he paints,
A canvas of clouds,
And of sky,
Paints made with blood and bone,
Paints of red and of black,
Crystal eyes reflecting what he sees in the world,
Anger and hatred,
He sighs and adds more to his canvas of life,
Hair spilling over his shoulder,
Sweeping the ground like the brushes in his hands,
His hands,
Callused and bruised,
Cut and marred,
Ivory and slender,
They play the brush over the canvas of the world painting all he sees,
The world,
Love is never part of him,
None love him so he never loves,
Eyes sweep the land once more,
Looking for more than nothing in the bleak lost lands,
People look at his paintings and then turn away,
They whisper behind there hands,
Calling the ivory beauties insane,
He does not understand,
The pictures are of the world,
The real world,
Another passes by him,
He stops,
Seeing the pictures and understanding,
A wave of fear passes him for he understands,
He stands there observing the world through the eyes of a stranger,
He understands,
But he does not know why there is no love in the pictures,
He has never meet the painter but knows that some one such as he must be
loved,
To paint the world so truthfully,
He must be beautiful to see things so,
He tries to paint the love himself,
No one can,
Love is not a thing that can be put on paper,
It can only be showed,
Tears,
Tears spill down the ivory face,
Tears that were saved for love.