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Poem

The master artist stroked with his brush of beneficence
The canvas relented. There, hence, blossomed magnificence.
Each stroke gave birth to a rainbow of multi-hued images.
Each dot gleamed, as though waiting to be alive for long ages.

Trees, shrubs, and herbs; hills, mountains, fountains, rivers, and oceans
The galaxies, heavens, and Hades each depicted his notions.
Ponds, lakes, and waterfalls— everything seemed good in my eyes.
None couldn't avoid praising the way he had sketched the skies.

Why, yet, are these desert storms, volcanoes, and earthquakes sketched?
Why are these charcoal-like black dots, like landscapes, seen outstretched?
Is it the soul wish of the artist, who has his own way?
Are these, like gems fixed in jewels, a part of the array?

The master may have many unique morals to impart.
Aren't good and evil, hope and hopelessness, parts of one's heart?
To brush up the marshy, bushy paths, I should add my mite.
Isn't continuing the master's work my divine right?

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