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.

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