If I were a painter,
I'd paint many a great scene.
I'd paint the way of my life,
I'd paint bitterness by a stream.
Pictures of my frailty,
Pictures of a beast.
All of which, a part of me,
Much of which matters least.
I'd use the essence of the sun,
To show the stinging pain.
The lighting bolt across the sky,
Representing bitterness in vain.
The delicate petals of a rose,
Yet the thorns forever stay.
The leaves of the autumn tree,
That fall along the way.
Wilted flowers on the ground,
Deadened by the sun.
Clouds are drifting over,
Darkness has begun.
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