They grasp the
Broken wood pencil
With their ghostly white knuckles,
Grinding the smoky grey lead
Across the
No longer pure white page
They shade here
And erase there
Until they halt
With a sigh
Of what I pray
Is content
And turn to grab
The cherry crimson
And chrysanthemum gold
To fill the drab, dull spaces
Between the
Bold black lines.
Simply stated,
They have constructed
A masterpiece
So extravagant
It strips any oxygen
From everyone's lungs
But that's not the only
Cause of people
Drowning in shock
For somehow,
Their captivating art
Is still nowhere near
As loved
And meaningful
As the imperfect artist
Responsible
