He sat before his canvas
and pondered upon what his next creation
would be.
Confused he was, for he wanted
to paint 'truth' but he did not know
if the truth was true
Days and nights flew by
the sand in Heaven's tall hourglass slipped away
as he sat still before his white board
He doodled with his brush,
raised a quizzical eyebrow,
a smile crept across his face.
He dabbed a little red, and erased it with black
highlighted lines, and shaded vividly
everything he sketched, he blackened
After hours spent, his hands were stained
with vile paint and turpentine
he gazed at the canvas, as though he was possesed
It was the blackest of black
Like truth itself.
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