Her mind never at halt,
Eyes glued to the construction paper.
Images and ideas ample her supple eyes,
But none seem to be right.

Ink as fatal as cyanide,
The anglic shade of sapphire blends in its veneer.
From sorrow to dotage,
Each picture was erroneous to her.

Tonight her brain shall sing,
A mollifying lullaby to leisure her troubles.
For as she knows hale,
A vague mural will soon be born.