His first stroke, I saw-
Was the colour grey spattered,
The white, idle canvas-
Was to be bartered,
For,'¦'A man in a cloak'-
The painting-the master had started.

For every minute,the colours traveled;
From brush to canvas,an artistic marvel.
For every second, the painting unraveled;
From thought to expression,an illusion so real.
How ornate is an artist's creation,
One does feel, to compare him and the Creator'¦
Both mavericks, in their own notion,
One does feel, to contrast, who among is Greater'¦

The artist designs,
To lure the audience.
The Creator designs,
To lure life in abundance.
The artist potrays,
A wild emotion.
The Creator potrays,
A torrent of motions.
So evenly matched, yet so elegantly apart,
Is this riddle, answered from the start'¦.

His last stroke, I saw-
Was the colour grey spattered,
The grey coloured canvas-
Had all the white parted,
For,'¦'A man in a cloak'-
The painting-the master had ended.

The artist has the canvas,
To bring in his world.
The Creator has the world,
To make in canvas.
The artist has his brush,
To bring in colour.
The creator has his brush,
To bring in life.
To bring in colour, great, the artist I admire;
To bring in life, greater, the Creator I desire.

The riddle lay answered,
For,'¦'A man in a cloak'-
The painting-the master had crafted,
Was now on my wall;
My wish granted.

Want to comment on this Poetry? Sign up to Edit Red and you will be able to comment on Poetry and get access to: Upload your own stories and poems, get readers and their feedback, promote your work...