Every stroke of his brush sweeps away emptiness like a broom,
Painting stories in my mind.
Each splash of color a new adventure
Into an unexplored wonderland,
Discovering treasures with every passing second.
His canvas is a violin,
And the brush his humble bow.
The sound of music overwhelming,
The rhythm consumes my soul.
Chiseling at near perfection, refining gold,
His masterpiece complete.
Limitless possibilities captured in a tube of ink,
Set free to run, never looking back.
The pen dances across the page,
Unchoreographed, brand new.
The tip a needle
And her thoughts the thread,
Sewing a story only she can tell.
Each time she stops to think,
Time stops itself.
The pen hits the paper again,
Resurrecting a whole world to life.
Taste the imagery, feel the sounds,
Hear the words rest on the page.
She sweeps her brush off the canvas
With one last stroke.
He picks up his pen
After one last word.
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