A lioness called Yavanna Oranë
Tap, tap, tapping she
(beats her hands against his chest)
the brush knocking against her teeth,
(that speak of a burden almost too heavy to bear.)
like the way she bites
her bottom lip...
Then the strokes begin,
short fast strokes, stabbing the canvas,
(releasing the rage)
breaking the blank stare,
the creation forcing its way into existence,
pulled from mere thoughts, that no other can see
or relate to.
Colors splash and swirl,
(as clothing falls to the floor)
and time passes sulkily,
unnoticed in the infinity of the now,
the moment, as she strives to contain the
(pain, the humility)
vision to canvas.
In a flourish she finishes,
poetry in picture form,
and as she returns from
(the childhood memories)
those heights of mind and dreams,
reality seems a little less bright,
a little less radiant.
Yet, as she glances towards
that which is hers,
she cannot help but smile,
and know she is one step closer