A girl in bare feet hums by the gate,
Sketching dreams in the dust, shaping fate.
Her crayons are broken, colors worn thin.
Still, sunsets bloom on pages from within.
A boy drums beats on a dented tin can,
Eyes closed, lost in rhythm like only he can.
Not a spectator in sight, no flashing light,
But the rhythm holds him through the night.
In corners where coins are few and far,
A dancer spins beneath a flickering star.
No stage, no crowd, no satin shoe,
Just soul and motion, bruised but true.
A mother crochets in silence deep,
Telling stories her heart must keep.
Each loop, a prayer. Each thread, a song.
No one is watching, but it’s still strong.
If art belonged only to gold and glass,
Would these soft flames be left to pass?
But look, God plants it everywhere:
In hands that shake, in eyes that stare.
More like life, art is not a thing you buy.
It’s a whisper, a cry, a hum, a painted sky.
It lives! Find it where life is raw and real,
In every hand that dares to feel. Amen.
ABOUT THE CONTRIBUTOR
Blue is how they speak when words fall short. A creative designer and poet, he blends color and language to express thoughts that bruise or heal. Through textured visuals and raw verse, he reveals what can’t be said aloud, soft truths, sharp realities, and everything in between, sometimes an Alien.
