As the artist sits down, his easel in place,
He looks out at the world detached from the race,
What he sees we won't know till the final stroke's done,
Though I'm sure his brush dances to the tune of the sun.
Time comes I am sure, when the mood has no glow,
He visits the places that most fear to go,
For the mood when it takes you it must be seen through,
Be it sunshine and laughter or the deep black taboo.
When the trip is over, be it morning or night,
The artist's brush rests, sometimes trembling with fright,
But most days I believe, there's a smile on his face,
For he's looking in at the madness from a safe far away place.