Eventually the moon loses its shine over time.
It dims and then fades; nature's greatest crime.
The van Gogh you desired turns dim, then black.
It's lost in the memories you won't get back.

The stars you wished on burned out in the sky.
Falling like tears that you refused to cry.
Splattered like a Pollack, then erased from sight,
Left alone to ponder your life in the night.

It may be darkest before the dawn.
But all of your dreams seem to be gone.
You're channeling your inner Picasso blue,
But dreaming of what else there is to do.

Your easel is life, your brush be your decision.
Will your masterpiece come from perfect precision?