An Artist chose to paint a piece
That spoke her very mind
And hopefully would be placed among
The great works of it’s kind.

So she placed carefully upon the easel
A canvas plain and bleak
She took a paintbrush in one hand
And the colours began to streak.

She smeared some colours onto the work
They did not want to blend,
Cerulean blue and a violent orange
Served only to offend.

She tried to daub the vicious reds
That she felt in her heart
Instead it did not suit so well
So she ripped the canvas apart.

A curious change came over her
As she tried again to paint
Her eyes took on a glow of joy
As if she were a Saint.

And finally, without a doubt
Her painting had to stop
And with a sigh of relief
She let the paintbrush drop

She stepped back, abject and weary
From the War she’d had to wage
And on the canvas, her painting was done-
A beautiful, blank page.