The brush squeezing my hands
Dripping in first blood of green;
Even a deft stroke of intent
Imbues but a pale sheen
Is this the beginning of my end?
The confounded meekly wonders
Or has my beginning ended
in the multitude of natural plunders
But I squeeze the brush now;
Take a step back from the wall
And the entirety is suddenly there
As my painting stands tall
