Brushes

a poem by tobias kerins, UK

Joe the artist, he did walk the street
Oh so humble, he was so discrete
He walked miles, were so sore his feet
But his story, did lay in the brushes

One day was painting, there down by the coast
Next day the city, the tall buildings boast
The colours stroked, the brush it took control
And his story, did hide in the brushes

He pulled out crayons, and with pencils drew
The grass was green, and the sky was blue
Image born, a picture did unfold
Oh how the story, grew from the brushes

Cars drove by, and the lorries rolled
A life like this, never would have sold
Bowler hats, and the men in suits
Told a story, that came from the brushes

Artwork paper, rested on his knees
Blowing gentle, was the summer breeze
The world his oyster, as far as he could see
Flowed a story, that emerged from the brushes

This time the country, and the meadows green
Forests thick, and the ideal scene
Wildlife spoken, the world it came alive
As his story, it lived from the brushes

His pictures sold, street artist he was known
Around the world, all his pictures shown
Texture raw, his mind it did run rife
All the stories, that jumped from the brushes

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