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Painting
January 4, 2016
His arms were his easel
His fingers were his paintbrush
He took his time, he had no rush
He liked painting late at night
When he didn’t want to put up a fight
His strokes were deep, swirling red
He drew and drew until they bled
One day, he stopped
Stopped painting for good
The picture was finished
He had done the best he could.
© Chelsea H., Carlsbad, CA
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