The Painter

He climbs the ladder, paintbrush in hand
Ready to coat the weathered years
That crack and peel from frost and heat and rain.
Rivers of reds and greens, blues and soft dove-greys
Drench my skin in laughter
And drip onto the tile spreading music
Throughout my veins
While little victories from battles waged
Against a cavalcade of mediocrity
Climax and parachute our runaway train
Onto an island murmuring endearments
Under its white sands, lulling us to rest.