In swatches of colours, that stand apart
Such gentleness, amidst the stiff canvas
Of their whiskers and fur, like puffy clouds
Coated under laquer, now yellowed
More that a few hundred years have passed
They remain, while the painter has left
In a hurried life, mostly of somber resent
Maybe in pursuits of gathering his view
The artist left, a piece of the past.
Brush stroke bunnies warm artistic hearts
In swatches of colours, that stand apart
Such gentleness, amidst the stiff canvas
Unlike my words, hidden in ripped pages
Shall stay in the soil, and rot for ages.
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