The Painter

This man has devised a way to be an artist,
But with no definable talent his work lays unappreciated,
Hidden from the world the canvass is shrouded in the mist,
Generated by the people who would do no better in his stead,
All along he will build an impressive collection of broken dreams.
One day the paint will dry up, the canvass will resist,
The colour and beauty lay weighted down with led,
For building and creating is no simple tryst,
And to keep the muse singing to you from your bed,
One must be one with the canvass, embracing the screams,
Of each and every torturous and desperate call,
From the bottom of the pit of despair, hear their call. One and all.