Painters

I wrote this poem after my Latin exam:)

Painters

quietly sit as

we wait our turn

to be free

          gone

          away

at a table covered

in paint, well—

splatters of colors

like someone

forgot

to continue

surrounded by people covered

in dark clothes, warm clothes

but for a few, still

all are drops of colors

who have not yet

forgotten

to continue

soon a bell will

ring, the time will

be now and

the splatters of colors

will paint

a new picture or

perhaps a mural

on a table like

world as they

run, brushes sliding

over the world’s surface

until they are free

                         gone

                         away

except someone scrapes

the dry splatters of

colorful paint off

the table

because she’s bored

or worse

the paint is

messy

as flecks and specks

of old paint

crumble over the hard floor

the free, gone, away

will also

but perhaps only

if we allow it

fluid paint will cover

 the world in color

for  as long as possible

they  vow to never

dry up

for some reason,

they forget to continue, but

if they meet water

before a bored child

or one who sees them as

messy,

there might be hope