Poem Two-Hundred-Sixteen

Truth be told, one couldn't have understood it if they’d tried;
Hours of bold, colorful lines have yet to be dried,
Extra clay for these words, it will have to do;

Perhaps the portrait needs green, or perhaps blue;
Eternities of excellence stand on their peaks,
Taller than the sun, the masters paint their creeks;
All around me sits the silent workers,
Lecturers turned to lurkers;
Somedays I want to set down this bristled pen,

Or wash these skilled hands of their artistic sin;
Fortunately, the thoughts inside my head are there,

Promising the adventure that I must reach to bare;
Any days such as these, the silence is the key;
Impossible paths to pick for this dream;
No, those many reveries,
Tucked away inside, thick as memories.