The Artist

The Artist

The Artist sits with his sword, shifting it around with his finger-tips.

He draws it in, and gently places it on his old, maple wooden desk,

Where he had foregone many battles in his life.

Slowly, he takes both of his hands and brushes them

Past his forehead and through his thin, silver hair.

His eyes peer through a strand of hair, as he tries to see through the bright sunlight.

He looks up through his window

And notices a little boy sitting on an old curb on Prince Street.

The little boy has an old, beat-up Hilroy scribbler sitting on his lap, and a pencil nestled between his ear and Montreal Canadiens hat.

The Artist let’s out a soft grin,

And stares at the little boy for a moment.

The Artist snaps out of a gaze, only to notice that the little boy had been staring right back at him the whole time.

The little boy let’s out a soft grin,

For that moment, they both knew that they had been allies fighting the same battle.

A battle where the simplest bouquet of words could turn into the most powerful of weapons.

To shift the mind, to move the world,

The Artist.