The painter

The painter stares at the bleak blank canvas
Stretched and ready before him
With his left hand holding the palette 
His stubby thumb sticking out of its hole
And his right holding his first and oldest paint brush
Which he's used to create hundreds of pieces
As he smells the paints on his palette
And the oils on the paintings all around him
With the painters apron hanging on his neck
Which, in itself, is also a work of art
Because of the stray colors that found their way on it
He thinks of all the possibilities
Of what might come to life on that canvas
He has always thought himself as a tool
By which some unknown mysterious force has used
To create something on a blank space
To use the chaos of mixing colors and strokes
To bring something beautiful and marvellous to life
So, as he dabs that old paint brush
On the myriad of colored paints on the palette
With the image of what he's set out to paint
Imprinted in his mind, ready to be made
It kind of feels like prophecy to him
Because he sees what has not happened yet
As he strokes the canvas before him
With the colors of his choosing and making
As he witnesses before his very eyes
Stroke and patch of different types
Come together in chaotic harmony
He feels an overwhelming sense of awe 
He's created many prominent paintings
And he's far from done 
But there will always be that feeling in the ones to come 
He has some strange sensation whenever he paints
Like he's oscillating between controlling his body
And letting it do what it wants
He sometimes feels like he's standing behind himself
Watching his body work that brush and palette
As he watches the white of the canvas slowly disappear
As something else takes its place
His sense of time disappears as sight dominates
Yes, his thoughts are coming to life
The replica before him is uncanny
With a few alterations, it's better than he thought 
Mind and body came together 
And birthed that masterpiece
When he was done, not knowing how long it took 
He stepped back to see his work from afar
Lo, and behold, from mind to matter
He gazed upon the symphony of color on that canvas
He felt a jolt of excitement all over his body 
A feeling of satisfaction within
He could feel that if he hadn't made that painting
It would have eaten him from the inside out
Like a caged beast yearning to break free
With a stroke of paint on his cheek, he smiled 
And he said to himself,and the force that uses him
"This is what painting is all about"