He is tethered to

These black and white sketches,

Mere light and shadow,

Faces without names,

Wearied silhouettes.

He yearns for more than this.

Insatiable specters peer at him

Through fogged windows

Until utterly restless, he concedes.

He conjures a staggering palette

And begins to paint his world.

His brush jumps and twirls,

Pigments running rampant.

Before long,

His strokes become labored,

His strength nearly sapped.

He inspects the fruit of his efforts,

A magnificent blend

Of gleaming shades and hues.

And he smiles in spite of the pain

Because he knows

The canvas that sits before him,

Bleeding vigor and luster,

Stirs him, sways him,

Moves him like no other.

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