Last Sunset

Since I am having writer's block from the story I'm writing... Here's a poem.

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1. Last Sunset

The soft tip of the brush slides along the paper

Making lines of hope and dreams,

Making your imagination real.

The colors so dark, but bright

Come at you at once as you continue to concentrate

On the one thing you love most in the world,

But slowly tire knowing you are weak of sickness

A sickness you cannot escape from.

The brush drops onto the grass

Painting it pink from the sunset you were drawing.

You know it’s time, but picking up the brush ignoring

The pain you finish your last portrait

And smile.

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