Tip toe into my paintbox zoo, take a seat, at the scarlet pillar-post,
The whir of the clock hails half past two,wave goodbye to morning's ghost,
Sit, and breathe in these colours, child, the emerald, sapphire, deep cyan,
That come to rest in the fold of clouds, in the land where all fine art began,
Meet the traveller, heavy-laden with brushes, jewelled inks and scroll,
Dance amongst the bushes there and dare to blink, lest you be told,
Inhale the vibrancy of life, the tear-dropped sky, the fading green,
Fragmentation left on the artist's knife, a spectrum covers the once unseen,
Dark corners where brave strokes enter, dilute the black with paler hues,
And float upon the common there, where passionate red bleeds into hazy blue,
A new beginning, a blank canvas on which to splash a creative mind,
And erase the past with a spot of black, all hurt has vanished, so you'll find,
The pot of purple open, to taint the wings of the Angel on the hill,
And paint her smile, delirium, and ease to blow on it, to set the wetness still.
Pinks and purples, yellows, gold, all lie lifeless in the paper's fold,
But he whose heart is pure and pale, can take the message in, as he inhales,
The stubble of the harvest field, the chocolate brown of the orchard, wild,
Is the mind of he so young. Reep the creative magic of a child.
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the flow was alright the creativity was kool but i did'nt understand the topic that much 
