The Coloring Book

A child plays with a crayon,

Coloring inside (and outside) the lines;

Drawing his own canon,

His imagination constructs his guidelines.

Sketching specifications,

No concerns for outline – black and white.

No dogmatic limitations,

Scribbling in tones that are: dark and bright.

His wax intones,

The page fills with his charms.

Shapes – he clones,

New generations of crops on farms.

Colorful seeds re-sown.

The plants his hands harvest and reap,

When he has grown,

Will be the hues which – make him unique.

Daily, through trial

And error, he develops his ability.

He sharpens, and files

His style, and soon controls his artistry.

Knowledge he vehemently seeks,

As he learns to stay in the prescribed boundary.

Through a variety of techniques,

He adds depth to his personal kit, and quarry.

He feels a fresh creative rush,

As (now a grown man) he gladly exchanges

His old crayons for a brush.

Recycled paper to canvas – the medium changes.

He creates beauty;

By recreating his picturesque perception

(His sense of reality),

And with his work is met with mixed reception.

Still, free from the color book,

No longer held back by a predetermined standard;

Forward – never back – he will look,

And others promote him to a creative commander.

“Free at last,

Free at last” once (unwittingly) a slave,

In the past.

“In the past...” those regrets, no longer engrave.

However, after “forever”…

The adult illusion

Begins to lift – and “freedom” degrades.

He`s left in confusion,

And into ancient innocent memories he fades…

…He stands staring, at a figure, across an impassable temporal canyon.

From his present longitude and latitude,

There is a sense of rectitude and servitude;

And his soul longs, to travel to the other side – to the child with his crayon.

Composed By: A.D.