The Artist's Jar (Inspired By The List Prompt)
|Around a monolith of tall wood,|
It’s fibrous tip gathered and pinched by metal,
The end of which is slightly discoloured from use,
That to me is called a paintbrush,
Crowd an indistinguishable Lilliputian army,
The deepest blue, an almost black,
Jostling for worship at the elitist totem
With it’s aged reputation of oils and passion.
An artefact with realisations of grandeur
Which an artist might balk from wielding,
And those Lilliputians of scratchy lines
Whose variety lies in the width of their tip,
Or reliant on the dubious skill of the barer,
Would give up their last drop of life’s ink
For a shot at the big time.
Poor impotent graphic pens.