Painter

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This was written after my English teacher claimed that any poetry without Metapor was just "Ramblings in a Journal." I wrote a poem completely in Metaphor as a response. This was what came out of it.

Painter

A sharp brush between her fingers.
She presses the brush against the pale canvas; 
a line of red paint, perfectly straight, on both the brush and the canvas.
She has painted this way several nights in a row.
All on the same canvas, or the one beside it. 
The red paint fades to brown.
But this night is different.
She dips the canvas in water,
and under the water she once again paints on the same line of the same canvas.
Lots more red paint this time, it stains the water.
The brush switches hands and she dips the other canvas in water, painting that one now.
More red paint,
and suddenly a mask of black paint.

Her vision is complete. 

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Poetry comes nearer to vital truth than history.

Plato (BC 427-BC 347) Greek philosopher.

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