The painter sits within the dingy studio, his white canvas untouched and bare,
his brushes dry, his paint unmixed. A tulip wilts, wanting some light and care,
the subject that the artist seeks to capture by his hard won craft and inborn gift,
but fleeting inspiration makes incapable the painter his own hand to lift.
He wants to set it down aright, that little glimpse he had of something out of sight,
but weeks have passed where nothing comes. The literal consumes the visions of the past.
The yellow bloom from sunlit field was plucked, and in the darked room does not instruct.
Tale Told 