The Painter's Masterpiece

As ink ridden eyes

Gaze into white skies

The world, a canvas

The painter, relentless


The brush he holds

A stroke of gold

As cosmic rays

Give heat and day


And what once was warm

Is given form

A shape, a meaning

A sun is gleaming


Illuminates a patch of not

And in that patch, an inky blot

Shifting, turning evermore

The murky black ever sore


Absorbing, shifting, bleeding through

A world of color, soon to rue

The artist, devoid of his swatch

With nothing more to do than watch


What once was grand,

What once was in hand

Now riddled and somber

A masterpiece no longer


A fading world

Of drowning pearls

Of fractal peaks

Ever more bleak


As hues give way

To muddled grays

The scorn of eve

The painter leaves


This poem is about: 
Our world


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