Was it a curse of perpetual dissatisfaction
That made their methods so meticulous?
Or was it just a mad mutation,
That made up a genius?
Each stroke of the paintbrush
Fell precisely into place
Till, like a sorcerer possessed,
He vitalized her face.
Each finger sculptIing a dream
Ceaselessly did play
Till, to the eye, perfected
Was the lump of clay.
Each word scratched and scribbled
Till the right one had hit home,
Typed, retyped then typed again,
Till timeless was the tome.
How every flavour chosen,
In every waft had lurked,
Each element picked with care
Like an alchemist at work.
How much did He relish
Tossing orbs, lighting stars,
Till they held each other
In an endless heavenly waltz?
©Sai
13/1/21
Pic credit: Frank Vessia (Unsplash)
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