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