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A painter at his easel.
Pallet in hand and a blank canvas.
He sits there thinking the world is his
to paint, but nothing worth painting.
His fingers press on the blank paper,
they sink in as if the paper was meant
for him. He reaches deeper into the paper.
The world becomes enveloped in a sea of white.
The painter pulls out his brush and strikes
the air, leaving a line of shade in the abyss
of nothing. He sits under the line, thinking...
A smile slowly forms. The world is his to paint,
and all it takes is a wave of a brush.