Aiden wasn’t popular; he wasn’t understood.
Whether it was work or sport, he wasn’t very good.
And deep inside his chest he felt a longing and an ache
To show what he could do and be, to show what he could make.

So he crept into the art room like the calm before a storm;
Every desk was empty but the atmosphere was warm,
And in the furthest corner was a canvas, blank and ready;
Aiden stood transfixed, feeling vulnerable and heady.

The canvas seemed to tingle as he touched it with the brush,
And as forms began emerging, Aiden’s blood began to rush;
Green and yellow fields ’neath a molten orange sky,
And a man with eyes so soulful, they made Aiden want to cry.

He was sitting on an outcrop looking out towards the sea
So intensely, Aiden wondered, “Are you looking out at me?” . . .