The painter

In another time,
She’d be a painter,
Probably a tad bit saner,
Just as the colors fly.

‘Tis time to be alive,
To be an artist with a poetic mind,
She’d be famous or poor,
But will remain forever without fear.

The test is to see,
As far, past where the mind can reach,
Light flying past the tips,
Of her finger, making things finer.

She’d be a maiden still,
Or a man a little covert,
For life is different,
But she shall prevail with her will.

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