Artists wait in the darkness
Of an unlit light, creating
In colours,
Using what they hold.
They give us
Red for veins,
Green for eyes,
White for space.
Theiy grow dim
In the wings,
But must carry on
For silent patrons,
To release the struggle.
They ply art in the dark,
Waiting for one ray.
As natural philosophers
We ask, Why must I create?
We know how monsters
Loose control
When life takes on a life of its own;
As does all of creation.