Poetry

The painting

The brushes drenched in colour,

Playing with jolly rainbows,

Laughing,singing,dancing,

Seemingly so happy,

So adept at concealing what lies beneath,

A broken heart that mourns the absence of the colourless water,

So long he had rebuked,

So many times he had taunted,

For being devoid of hues,

For being way too plain,

And silently she had cried,

Then silently she had left,

And now nobody knows for how long the brush has wept.

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