Member Poem

The painter lost his mind
His canvas is empty, standing on the side
His brush is dry and his paint grows cold
The scenery around him died and his mind turns mold

Many says that he grew old
That his mind is not that sharp like before
Many says that he is fake
Like a spring pretending to be a lake

But in his eyes, sorrows is met
The once beauty of his works that swells his pride
Turned into dust, his mind grew rust
His hands are trembling, his lines are crust

His painting stood tall
His standing on a desolate cold
His feet is sinking like his memory
Reflection of his state and his unforgiving despair.