Touches Of A Master Poem by Mark Heathcote

We are all merely brushstrokes, a pigment
on a canvas touched by the hand of a Master
our colours bleed out to explore
the subtler textures of this unknown genius
as abstract art goes, this is the birthplace
the final word, the all-encompassing closure
to see each morn the sunrise and sunset
each one, a masterpiece without flaws
it is only we who have imperfections
that's airbrushed-over-in compositions new.

It is only we who, in our ever-changing oils
develop a mindset of absolute indifference
ranging from intolerance, hatred, and love
when it is complete and framed, the seer
will proclaim, speak like a worldly prophet
here is a landscape of unequalled beauty
here is a place of peace tranquillity
framed-without borders or wars
here is a portrait of a man without fears
who's never-been-known to make errors or slips?