The Art Critic

 

Those attentive eyes embrace the sight on canvas painted tale,

And express in judgment with a longing sigh for some original skill,

The dancing swirls of brushstroke tint in colour captivate no onlookers,

This dreary dexterity a growing bore with no satisfaction to be born,

Beauty is not its final forte, side imagination expiry and wealth is naught,

This master watercolour captures the work that no other man could do,

And thought lacklustre in scene bodes well in approaching aspiration,

The critic’s eyes see not the artistry but the sheer determination,

“As you can see ladies and gentleman this is a ravenous talent!”