I've met the painter
who used his brush
to create your beautiful canvas.
I know of your palette,
of your vibrant colors,
of the story I receive
when I take you in.

But no matter how I try
I'm unable to see
past the shades you're composed.
For no matter how I long,
I realize that yours is a painting,
an image I so desire to view.
And I am just another,
incapable of seeing
the initial stroke.