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In the studio he stood,
painting with a drunken passion,
upon a fantastically over grown canvas,
set upon the wooden easel.
Operating on the edge of his sensiblities,
I thought surely a madman he just be,
for his picture overwhelmed my eyes.
A chaos of hues in revolution,
mixed about like shooting stars or fireworks,
against the background of a delicate web,
Half struggling in a pool of gloom,
half illuminated by the brighest flames,
of sunshine.
I stood fixed in my gaze upon his creation,
feeling both capitivated and perplexed,
disturbed and exhilarated by this spectacle
before my eyes,
Wondering aloud to the master,
what muse could be the inspiration of
such genius, he rested his brush upon
the palette of colors turned his solitary
figure towards mine and said
"I call it life".
