Today, another brushstroke;
The artist poised,
With ever trembling pencil in his hand;
A rough, uneven canvas;
And so he sighs,
His strokes are like the shifting sand

Somehow the tones are different,
The picture wrong
The first intent somehow misplaced;
And though he tries with patience
He cannot claim
The lines which he first proudly traced

(Wrote this after reading Ky's post about dancing. Unedited so it's probably got a bunch of mistakes but oh well. Just some thoughts and refelctions on my part.)