In a presentation's calm, where mumbles stop,
A material hangs together as one.
Brushstrokes hit the dance floor with bothered ease.
Colors wail, longing to embrace.
Its colors are rich, yet the shadows lament.
A masterpiece, eminence despairing.
Eyes that look, hearts that pulse,
Seeing a soul, the world could break.
A field of sprouts, heavenly yet frail,
Every petal turns with hopelessness and inspiration.
A sky of gold, before long stained dull,
Quiet resonates like a cloudy day.
The gifted laborer's hand, with delicate ideas ,
I have dreams and huge sadness.
In each stroke, a tear is masked.
In each color, a scar is revealed.
We stand and look, lost in the workmanship.
Feeling the pulse inside our hearts.
For greatness here, so pure, so fascinating,
Is moved by harshness everywhere.
In addition, as we leave, the material stays.
Ageless night in the brightening of days.
An exhibit of reverence and torture,
A faultless piece where troubles rule.
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About the Creator
Rony Sutradar
I am an experienced writer who produces sharp, convincing writing for exciting startups, household names and everything in between. On a daily basis.
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