White was all, as he stepped inside,
Scattered was the paint, thrilling the sight,
He splashed it all, on the canvas,
Like a child, like a benign.
Slowly later, when he realized,
Art was made from chiseled point,
Edging and finishing needed the time,
And, sets his young with curious rhyme.
After a point, he was tired,
And he trembled on his toe,
Held it altogether, the pretty smile,
One in the picture and other beside.
Looking at her, he started again,
Some with new shades, some with refine,
Some with the hope, and some with joy,
Painted all well with his thoughts designed.
Hours of work, had now he done,
Tired he felt to an approaching end,
Inspired the world with his piece,
And signed it off in his artistic style.