The canvas sits, on a wooden stand,
Void of the visions, blind to the light,
still as a stone, Deaf to the sound,
Then a blissful entrance,
Of a feather-y brush,
And all it takes, is a moment of peace,
The light strokes caresses,
Fills the canvas with colours,
Sometimes red,
Sometimes blue,
Sometimes it's black, like the darkest hour of night,
And sometimes it's white, the peaceful bright,
The painter draws, or he grants a life,
With every drawn shape, a very new sight,
A moment of peace, when all's glad,
When the reality seems far away,
And then the moment ends,
And the canvas hangs lonely on an empty wall,
But this time, filled with colours, known to the light,
And very much, pleasant to the eyes.