The Ink of the Artist, The Words of a Poet

The Ink of the Artist, The Words of a Poet

The artist dipped his hands in blue,

And painted skies the daylight knew,

While poets stitched with quiet grace,

Soft little worlds no storm could chase.

Ink spilled slowly across the page,

Gentle as dawn and wise with age,

Every word a feathered sigh,

Floating beneath a peaceful sky.

The rivers hummed in silver streams,

Carrying fragments of sleeping dreams,

And every canvas held the sun,

Like mornings never fully done.

A poet sat beneath the trees,

Writing verses with the breeze,

His heartbeat calm, his spirit light,

Turning silence into white.

The artist painted oceans gold,

Stories only colors told,

While distant birds through heaven flew,

Brushing clouds in softer blue.

There was no grief inside that room,

No scent of death, no trace of doom,

Only candles, books, and rain,

And peace flowing through every vein.

The poet smiled at fading light,

As stars awakened through the night,

Knowing beauty softly grows,

In quiet hearts the whole world knows.

And when their final pages close,

The earth will keep the art they chose,

For words and colors never die,

They simply rest inside the sky.

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