His canvas remains blank,
Covered by the fog of inanity.
His painting is an enigma,
Without form or color,
Because he does not know what to paint,
If the reality he feels,
The one he sees or the one he is.
The dust settles on the canvas,
That pale memory,
Of the works he could never paint.
But he keeps searching,
Without rest,
For the inspiration that will allow him
To reveal the truth
Of his blackened existence.
In a dream, he sees.
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