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The Artist
He climbed the mountain, stone by stone
his wings weathered at his back
braved the winds and stood against the storm
although the odds against him stacked
Pencil gripped within his teeth
he'd take to the top his very art
for he was higher than all beneath
and of them, he could never be a part
So as on the summit he would stand
towering over the world so bleak
he'd take that pencil within his hand
and allow his art to speak
But no sooner said, that harsh wind blew
and toppled him from on his place
and as he fell, he softly knew
that there was only one end to this grace
So he spread his wings and continued to fall
awaiting his impending fate
a smile on his face, as he clutched his tool
it was now or never, but never too late.
