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Rated: E · Poetry · Arts · #2225456
What it means to be a artist,

Hours spent in contemplation
Natures beauty his inspiration
Commanded by its humble form
The canvas sits and now is drawn
A sketch revealed in charcoals wake
It’s only now he begins to paint
With every stroke the subject bends
Like time itself it never ends
Progressing through his every task
Brush and painter become one at last.
Hours pass, the easel sighs
With brush in hand he tells his Lies
Mapping in its every grace
The pallet knife finds its place
Measured strokes and colors blend
Its only now he sees the end
Framed and standing, the critic waits
Looking over what took place.
Reviewed and framed, and hanging true
The artist gives a different view
Of what it means to have a craft
That humble calling we call art.

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