The Artist

He slashed the dirty paintbrush against the canvas
Oblivious to his own vision and reality.
As the mind of the artist lacks externally.
This was his own and nothing more.

Flecks of angry white speckled the walls around
Spread out in frustration at an urge of perfection.
It just could never be as he envisioned,
But he never gave up, and brushed away.

His sweat beads melted the lacquer to a pool,
Fine lines and a dash of green more.
It would never be right, the shading off.
A heart beating faster but lacking life.

He threw the can of blue at his progress
Knocking if off the easel, swirling colors.
Anger and pain, was it ruined?
He picked it up, and painted on.

The fog of his mind now wisped away
Before him a masterpiece lay tilted.
But the greatest work done lacked so much.
Hot breath and a smudge revealed.

Though a charlatan was lurking beneath
Who had envied the artist at his work
Jealous at what he could not have
Coveted that within his grasp.

Tearing the masterpiece with claw and malice,
Knocking the artist to the floor,
The storm had always been there
As God painted the sky