The paint brush is held tightly in her hand

She strikes out wildly and iridescent hues splatter the canvas

Perched tenuously on the rock before her

She stands back, inspecting her creation

Swipes a strand of hair from her face

And gazes, sighs, the image does not reflect

The one once held in her mind’s eye

Frustration swells and she reaches forth her hand

Grasps an unused brush

Dips it angrily into the pot of black upon the stool

And lets it drip upon the newborn work

Then grasps and tears a long blade of grass from the earth

Using it to spear her work and spread the dark hues in wispy lines

And laughs a deep-throated laugh at the results

The image is not what she had conceived

And yet it holds a beauty just the same

Beauty born out of darkness and frustration

Birthed in raging anger

The light dancing across the colors both rich and subtle

Creating a mosaic and thrusting forth feelings

Capturing perfectly her ever-changing mood

Smiling at her folly she eases herself into the little chair

And awaits her work to dry in the soft breeze and warm sun

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