There is an artist,
A thoughtful painter.
He's called a master
By his followers.
Critcs say that he has
Made some of the most
Beautiful
Magnificent
Fantastic
Pieces in the world.

Now
He will do it again.

He stands before
A white canvas
Set on his lucky easel,
Rapping his brush
Lightly against his head.
As he studied the space,
The off white void
Challenging him to fill it.

For three days he sits
And three nights he lays
Staring at the white
Two foot by three foot
Blank rectangle
Until he decides
On what will be
His greatest
Masterpiece.

For three days
And thee nights,
He holds the bursh
As he paints a scene
Of grey people
On grey landscapes
Going about their
Grey business.
Doing what grey
People normally do.

On the last day,
He looks at his work,
A portrait of the truth
And inner workings
Of the whole word
On a single Canvas.

And he smiles contentedly.
Rarely does he compliment
His own artwork,
But believe
That his piece must
The finest to be made.

Yes

It was a pretty piece,
But it had smudges here
And blotches there.
Most unnoticible
To the less wary eye.
But I see them
And I mourn to think
That someone
Ruined the pefection
Of a white canvas.