The Artist

His life was a piece of abstract art,
Simple forms that fill with meaning.
Careful strokes pouring from his heart
Are members of his life convening:
The professor, the mother, the dog.
He was a merry man
With a lot of space to play with,
And a friendly fellow
With many stories to share,
And a dying person
Foreboding the last stroke.
His stories twirl, and the colors whirl;
The canvas becomes a merry-go-round
Spinning faster and faster.
There remains
One lift of the brush,
One final stroke,
One breath,
And the final touch:
Morte.

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