The Paintbrush

The paintbrush

Abandoned in mud, beside a chain a chain link fence, 

where are you?

My bristles once wet with paint; now dry and immobile. 

I was once loved, 

a delicate hand guiding me across a canvas, creating 


art that would one day leave their small bedroom.

What was it again? 

Maybe the ocean, 

although I had never tasted the air, 

perfumed with salt and seaweed 


or heard waves crashing against jagged rocks. 

Maybe the sky? 

I saw clouds through small windows 

like tiny sections of heaven, tore out and plastered on your wall.

sunlight bleached softly on my body,

 my handle splatted 


with charcoal, sapphire, emerald. 

What was it again? 

I was part of a masterpiece,

 if only I could remember. 

I could remember you, 

you who held me like I would break at any moment, 


you who cared for me like a prized possession. 

Was it your birthday, or mine?

I belong to a new entity now,

 the mud which encompasses me,

 holds me in its arms like a child. 

The rain which wets my bristles like your paint once did. 


a chain link fence protects me and the sky that watches over like a god. 

Has my wood begun to rot?

my body soft, paint that falls off like baby teeth.

 Gradually, becoming compost for the damp

 earth that surrounds my form.

 Giving back, bit by bit, to what has truly loved me.




(prompt- go on a walk, write from the point on view of an object you find)

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