He Who Sits By The Canvas

He who sits by the canvas

In the mornings as auburn as flames

A stroke of the colored paint brush

Conjures portraits of cupids
And smiling dames.

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He who sits by the canvas
A miracle how the stars he paints

Lights up his very skin

Canvases portraying valleys and villages

And glossy streaks

And golden fields
And wells as deep as the dimple on his cheek.

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He who sits by the canvas

For when he scrubs his hands in the river
It bleeds inexplicable tints

The waves carry those miracles

Around the world

The colored waters narrating
All the stories untold.

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He who sits by the canvas

Can't help but spoil it's white

With caressing brushes and tips of fingers

Flowy dabs

Evolving neverlands,

Gravel paths inviting vigorous strides.

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He who sits by the canvas

Paints stories of life

A wordless tale

An evaporated thought

Caught mid-air

Then caged as a colored dab

With a frustrated stroke

Or a humbled stab

And at times,

His worrys and fears,

Breathes across the canvaswide

And dreams as wild as stallions

Galloping across painted fields

Or simply all the words unsaid

Forming an etched masterpiece.

*****

He who sits by the canvas

Breathes in the halo

Of wretched and glorious hues

How ignorant of gold and fame

He paints without a picturesque name.