I found a book of paintings

I found a book of paintings buried deep under the reverie of my attic,
Covered in brown dust through which peeked a ragged jacket;
No one knew whence it came or who painted in it,
Or whose faces were captured in bold brush strokes, and faded paint.

Therein was a painting of a young child and his dying mother,
And streams of grief flowed from innocent and helpless eyes;
The mother had streaks of sickness etched over her face, under her eyes,
Expressionless as she passed on amidst her humble belongings, under countryside skies.

There is a painting made in differing shades of grey,
Of a street corner that I've not seen the likes of before,
And, you see an unkept head of hair under the straw tent under the dead streetlight,
Under the sun or under the light of the night, it makes a dim sight.

Someplace near the center of the book of paintings that I found under the reverie of my attic,
Is a painting of a couple, how in love they seem!
Bathing in the setting sun alone on a weathered shore, along a river meandering along,
Probably watching the rising tide, the tide of promise, the tide of better fortune.

There follow a few violent paintings that follow,
With blood and gore splattered in abstract strokes and patterns,
Like a disturbed yet determined mind that has been dissected on to a canvas,
Pouring out painful memories, flowing from a mountain of dark spirits and dark faith.

There then follow a series of happy strokes with bright colors,
The couple in love, from the weathered riverside,
In the midst of prosperity, and friends, and wealth
Happiness in their hearts and loneliness in their eyes.

My book of paintings that I found under the reverie of my attic,
Ends abruptly with a lonely funeral pyre on the weathered river shore,
Like a poem half written, half formed and half lost in reverie...