A green sprout pushes towards the bright morning sun,
Yawning and rubbing the sleep from is eyes.
He calls out a cheery hello
As all the little bluebirds greet the day.
He stretches and stretches as the morning goes on,
And a full head of hair is first
Before the clever northwind blows
And all of his locks are lost from sight.
He is withering now, so old and frail
But he smiles insdie because he knows
He is going to a better place
And wonderfull roses
Who just never stop growing.
With a sigh our sprout says,
Almond shaped souls, mounted on alabaster,
Filled with emerald pools
Lie above three mountain ranges.
One range hides the souls from each other,
The others are only small, like hills.
A town of white houses sits in a valley,
With hillsides covered in pink flowers.
All is surrounded by golden grass
That brushes across the northern plain.
Each is part of a whole.
Yet, each whole is unique.
Answer: a face
Stuck in the middle
Between child and adult
Between dependence and independence
Between seeking and sought
Between beginning and end
Between love and lust
Between selfish and selfless
Between friends and foes
Between choices and choosing
Between bedtime and curfew
Between moods and moody
That is a teenager.
I’m a little rusty after almost a year hiatus from drawing. Not my best, but at least now I can only get better.
I don’t know who this woman was, but she was Amsterdam. I am Amsterdam. We are Amsterdam.