Mastermind manners

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)