You sit there, alone
On your paint-splattered stool,
Staring at the blank canvas;
Waiting for inspiration.

You mumble,
Curse in frustration;
The heart wants to express
What the hands cannot feel.

Your eyes move slowly around the clutter in the room.
You grasp firmly onto the brush;
Hands that are anxious for movement
But are frozen in uncertainty.

Searching, wanting, needing;
All feelings you know so well.
Then your eyes fall on a single, dried rose -
Your hands tremble.

A coincidence of memory
Races like passion through your body,
Grabbing hold of you -
Breathing life into your hands.

Inspiration overwhelming.
Your heart pounds as the brush dances,
Filling the emptiness with color and life,
Revealing what was buried and once forgotten.

You drop the paintbrush and sit back.
A sense of peace washes over you,
Cleansing you of the pain
Inflicted by the memories of the rose.

A weight lifted from your heart,
You stare at the canvas, then the rose.
A smile, a tear.
You stand and leave the room, closing
The door behind you.