Every day, when he got up, he had to color. It was his
job and only he could do it. He practiced until he
felt that he got it right.
Finally, he decided it was time. He decided to paint the world.
He used all of the materials he had available–
Acrylics, enamels, varnishes, and stains.
But most important to him, were the colors.
He was meticulous.
The brush strokes spread oceans in shades of cerulean
and mountains so rich they looked like chocolate.
After landscapes emerged
birds in the sky
lions in the jungles
starfish in the seas.
He placed a newly risen sun.
Every detail was important; he labored with painstaking accuracy.
When he was finished, he stepped back.
He felt proud.
He placed his brush on his palette and he rested.
Generations appreciated its splendor.
Periodically, he made sure it still appeared the way he intended
And when needed, he touched it up.
Always painting reality in vibrant colors
And death in black and white.
One day, he thought about getting a new canvas and new colors,
but he knew nothing could compare to the original.
And the colors? He liked the old ones better anyways.