Down the curving corridor,

Where the brass weathered knob shines by lamplight,

Sits the Art Room, with its canvases and lore.

And from the imagination’s edge, it beckons with an invite.

The shadows of the sun are patterned from the trees outside the glass pane,

Brightening the paint-blotched crooked floorboard,

 As just beyond the sunlight, lies a portrait of a Crane.

The walls are felled with uncreativity while the reserves serve a deeper reward.

The hanging plants adorn the far side, while the easels stand like soldiers awaiting battle.

And on the easels lie canvases of a kind,

Of plants and people, of clippers and cattle;

The things and theories that occupy a wandering mind.

The brush, like the pen, is an instrument of perspective.

Its soiled bristles fly the banners of the color palettes.

While it seeks to complete and preserve its objective.

A view from the ocean, the shifting sands of a desert, and a harvest of fruits and shallots.

Each serves as a window into an alternative reality.

Where the stars and the shadows compare.

Art is a figment of morality,

And the Art Room is the Middle of Everywhere!

 Photo by KayDee Owens on Unsplash