Pictures trickle out of my hand,

As images come from my demand,

I stand quite firmly on this land

As the brush paints my heart's command.


The strokes come softer here and there,

Sometimes I need to stop and stare,

At such marvel that I dare,

To draw upon this canvas bare.


There are no sounds all around,

Just birds chirping on the ground,

With every line I feel my heart pound,

And with my paintings I will astound.


I mix the blue, the green, the red-

As my hand, uncontrollably, is led,

Upon this virgin canvas that I've yet to bed,

So I draw what's in my head.


I, the painter, am now finished,

My tale of art is now completed,

I stare in amazement, quite astonished-

At the painting I have created.





The End

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