The Glorious Painter

He has been painting,

Since the Garden of Eden wailed,

Witnessing the Original Sin,

Of the primary beings.


He doesn’t paint shapes alone,

Unlike a volcano the canvas is ever alive,

So are the works of art,

Each like an actor playing a part known and unknown.


Glory be with Him and His creations,

Letting them move at large,

Controlling at once as if flying kites,

Tolerant like a tranquil sea and like a west wind fierce.


Within an endless canvas we are,

Both accessible and beyond,

A surface to walk on,

A colossal space to stir.


The walking pictures end up in gloomy sepulchres,

Turning into foodstuffs,

Of those they crushed once,

The paintings don’t die; rather make room for new ones. 

View kingofwords's Full Portfolio