Osceola

In eighteen hundred thirty eight a painter, passing by before it would become too late, used skill and artists eye to gauge a noble warrior’s heart; to excavate his soul; to make a warrior, torn apart, appear, forever, whole. The eyes shone golden amber brown; the face was mirrored dread ‘neath feathered plume and crimson crown. His race was nearly dead. The “trail of tears”, with weary feet, did Osceola stride with Seminoles in sad defeat bereft of hope and pride. The warriors garb belied his pain for life and hope were done he wouldn’t live to fight again as death had nearly won. When Catlin paused, his eye fulfilled, his painting graced a hall to show the world a warrior, killed, could live to haunt us all. © Copyright 2006 W.D. Neighbors