Blank page before him, pure, pristine &
white,
Waiting to capture the first of dawn´s
light,
The vision before him, portrayed by his
hand,
A feast upon canvas, of all his eyes
scanned.
From pencil & paintbrush, outlining
& sketching,
The vista of day, from God´s soul, he was
etching,
Drawing & daubing, from the awakening
of dew,
And the feathers of birds, flying into
skies blue.
From his palette of wood, the golden sun
grew,
And into emerald trees, hued butterflies
flew,
He painted his day, from the adieu of the
moon,
He swathed day´s dreams & the sleepy
soft noon.
As the day settled down & the evening
approached,
His canvas bruised mauve, as twilight
encroached,
He´d painted the whole day in the life that
he had,
And he knew, if that´s all he did, it
couldn’t be bad.
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