BY PEYTON THOMASSON
Our bones throb with the pulsing itch of boiling blood
Raging within every vein.
With restless hands and feet, our souls ache
To run—to hope—to love…
To paint the world into color.
Every brush an embrace
Of the eternal canvas.
A bit of love encapsulated—
Tied down, and then unfurled again…
On every note, in every stroke—set unto freedom
From Dark unto Light— Day into Night.
The impassioned fire of words transfixing
Into visions past, present, to come…
A never-ending story—we battle for glory.
Yet, with all transpiring days yet to come,
This war that we write
Has already been won.