The Canvas

There it was before him,
The blank canvas,
It beckoned his name,
As he walked a sudden chill ran down his spine,
A premonition?
Perhaps...

He took the brush with a shaking hand,
A single stroke,
And innocence had been born,
The man's eyes grew wide,
He lay another stroke of paint upon the canvas,
His astonishment grew.

With every new streak of paint,
Every stroke of the brush,
The image that was lain out before him grew closer and closer to perfection,
Yet with every stroke an odd dissatisfaction...

The man continued,
His eyes lit up with childlike joy,
Behold!
He cried,
A masterpiece!
He peered over his shoulder,
There was not a single soul...

He looked around him,
There was nobody,
The man found this strange,
He turned back to the canvas,
A blemish centered his gaze.

The man dabbed a bit of paint on it,
The blemish was still there,
He added a little bit more,
Another caught his eye,
So he streaked some paint atop it,
Then another...
And another...
And another...

He turned his back to the canvas,
Throwing his arms up in celebration of his triumph,
Behold!
He cried,
A true masterpiece!
Yet again,
Nobody was there...
And all was silent...

He turned to the canvas hesitantly,
Though he knew not why this sudden wave of hesitant fear had washed over him...

Lo and behold,
The canvas was black.

The man cried out in fear,
Collapsing to his knees,
And grasping his head,
Shielding his ears from the bellowing silence,
As tears streaked his face.

Then...
There was nothing...