I watch him move as if in a trance,
Engrossed in another world,
In moments like this I
Don't dare disturb
Him out of his spiritual reverie,
His hands doused in color,
Working on the canvas in a rapturing frenzy.

He is a spectacle,
The creator of perfection.
He knows just the right shade
To bring to life his vision,
He knows...
He knows it all,
Mingling fine detail with vague mystery,
Crafting beauty that enthralls.

While I...
I fumble and struggle,
To pick the right words,
To describe him,
My fixation, obsession,
My muse, my craft,
As if he reduces all my poetic prowess
To a bundle of nervous childish follies,
He, the master of his art towers over-
Me, merely a humble slave of his fancies.