A splatter of paint on a dark canvas
a light in the darkness,
between his eye and the stretch of fabric
lies empty, undying air,
waiting to be filled.
His mind catches the smallest detail,
almost forgotten,
Mind and hand correct fluently
The strokes of his brush lie, dead,
already served their purpose
their short lives ended
His mind calculates the slightest possibility
he stops short, thoughts cross his path
filling the air between,
he feels his piece,
alive again.
He continues on,
a smile flickering across his face
crinkled eyes softly gleaming,
Repeating.
The softest glance
reapplying their technique
Again.