(A tattered man stands before his easel
Like it was his lover returning from a five-day trip
He stares at it longingly; time stands still
As the blank canvas seems to stare right back.)

He picks up a brush; a chosen color in hand
The white disappears by the blue that it does swallow
A wet and deep environment comes before the land
For the green brownish tones have yet it to follow.

The brush makes a movement like a dancer on ice
It moves here to there ever so specific and slow
The painter is careful, for the piece cannot be done twice
So his patience and precision are evident to show.

Day after day, night after night
The agonizing process drags on like a stone
Hard, unforgiving; like a crop with blight
But look at what artistic wonders are now shown.

A cloud, a mountain, a rabbit, a tree
They sprout up in liquid form at first
But they solidify on the canvas for all to go see
As the painter continues letting ideas out to burst.