PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

Crushed berries and the sea were her only pastes,

because she wanted it to be as natural as possible.

Watercolors dripped across the canvas,

taking the shape of a sunrise over the mountains.



She did it all from memory,

just as she had every other creation.



   "You need to learn the difference between memories and reality."



She closed her eyes against the burning tears

that threatened to distort her vision.

She lifted her brush, determined to bring a shred of the past

into the present.

She held it comfortably, a master in her art,

and her strokes were relaxed and professional.



Even her brush was natural,

made from her own horse's hair

and whittled from the branch of a crabapple tree.



   "Memories hold no truth; they are but images

    seen with a biased eye."



And he had been right.

Her fingers fluttered over the canvas,

and traces of the earth dampened the creases on her tips.

It wasn't a painting, but a memory.



She could only remember the beauty in that sunrise,

instead of the scent of death and suffering

that had lingered on the breeze that morning.



   "Reality is the 'here' and the 'now'. It has nothing to do

    with the past, because the past is always obscurred."



It was finished.

She splattered her masterpiece with the sea,

misting her blemished memories.



She drew an ink pen from her pocket,

and clearly wrote the last words

she had ever spoken to him

in clear, distinct penmenship.



   "In the Midst of Morning, Forget Me Not."