Because Love And Death Go Hand And Hand

There was a man with a dull coat

Sitting on the green park bench.

Dying leaves appeared to flutter about him,

But they were just falling.

Surely, he was an artist.

Only an artist could create such an illusion

And fade the barrier

Between beauty and death.

He was writing,

Or perhaps he was drawing;

She couldn't tell which.

His fingers were delicate around his pencil,

Cradling it in a gentle grip,

Though she could see barely controlled tension

And violence hidden shallowly beneath.

On a whim,

On a quick and petty impulse,

She walked closer to his park bench-

More grey than green, decidedly-

And tried to look over his shoulder.

He crumpled the paper in sheer frustration

Just as her line of sight attached to it.

She saw it bounce on the dirty path

As the man stood up stiffly,

Glancing at her briefly

With a flicker in his eyes.

He was gone.

She sat on the bench moments later

And opened the bundle of paper,

And when she did,

She realized that this man 

Had not been creating a drawing

Nor a poem

Nor a story.

He had just been creating art,

Simple and pure,

Complex and tainted.

Amid chaos and graphite marks,

Eraser shavings and insistent rips,

Was a messily scrawled word-

'Love'-

Not made impatient by the beautiful destruction

Or angry creases striking through it.

She ironed out the paper

And decided that maybe she could return it

Someday.

A very deep piece about the power of art and its influence. Truly amazing. This piece is by SpiralingSpontaneity! Please leave feedback for your fellow poet!

Check out the DA profile: HERE 

Also check out the original post: HERE 

(And don't forget to share your poetry with us on the top right of the blog!) Thanks again for the awesome submission SpiralingSpontaneity !