They Walked Across and Painted with Pride

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  • Bailey's Mom's avatar Artist
    Bailey's M...
  • DDG Model
    AIVision
  • Access
    Public
  • Created
    5mos ago
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Prompt

Rainbow crosswalk unfurls as piano keys — each key a color, each color a note. At twilight, a gathering: gay artists, diverse, alive, reverent. They kneel, bend, lean — painting keys that glow with their own signatures: Frida Kahlo, flower crown luminous, her key blooming flora, surreal motifs, sacred animals. Basquiat, graffiti crown above him, raw strokes and scrawled text etched into his key, wild and defiant. Keith Haring, bent low, filling his key with bold outlined pop figures dancing in rhythm. Warhol, cool gaze, silkscreen tones spilling into neon vibrance on his key. Kehinde Wiley, brush carving regal floral ornament, his key patterned with radiant intricacy. Beauford Delaney, swirls of luminous color rising from his brush, his key awash in chromatic fire. David Hockney, clean pools of vivid blue and pink, flattened perspective, his key like a swimming dream. Tamara de Lempicka, sleek and stylized, angular glamour laid into her key. Basquiat’s chaos, Kahlo’s myth, Haring’s joy, Wiley’s regality, Delaney’s light — a collective spectrum. The rainbow keyboard surges upward, cascading over rooftops, flowing into the storm-lit sky, crescendos into a glowing EKG heartbeat line — peaks and valleys alive, subtly hinting “Pulse,” but always a monitor of life. Above, in the clouds, faint ethereal faces — diverse, youthful, their distinct individuality apparent, each one, but gone too soon because they danced. Soft silhouettes, ghostlike but radiant, gazing down with reverence. Atmosphere: reverent, surreal, luminous allegory, dreamlike yet grounded. Unified by Dirk Dzimirsky’s hyper-detailed realism woven with Tomasz Alen Kopera’s visionary surreal glow. Cinematic surrealism. Multi-layered textures. Magical realism. Dreamlike allegory. A luminous collective masterpiece.

More about They Walked Across and Painted with Pride

We all move to the beat of different drums,
dancing to the tempos of heart-songs.
Lyrics inscribed like DNA,
solos never meant to be silenced ,
but belted out and , sung aloud and bold,
with the full breath of lungs.

When voices join, we are a chorus,
a concerto of colors,
circadian rhythms and blues.
We echo each other’s hues.
Because music never dies
it lives on,
in the collective pulse.

I'm not a poet. These words are my "heart-song." Though flawed in delivery, they are written with genuine intent to honor the Pulse victims, freedom of expression and humanity's shared community.

©2025 SHI. All rights reserved. All images, including base, evolutionary and final, as well as expressed content and narrative associated with original alias “Bailey’s Mom” are prohibited from use.

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