the surrealist

You would that I sit patiently,
With brush in one hand; palette in the other.
Recalling primary colours,
Conceptualizing your shades and tones.
Perched back and patent thoughts.

You would that I become a Picasso,
Or a Henri Mattise.
So I slave over you,
Losing hours and days; months to say the least.
Perfecting what cannot be perfect.

I'm taken aback as I admire,
With brush in one hand and palette in the other.
I have captured what seems to me,
Beautifully,
Art.