The Art of Reluctant Protection

The whisper of wishful paint makes itself known across the canvas,

Gold and white are woven within themselves and seeping into the brush,

Day by day, no breaks, a seeming eternity until the first steps are taken,

A new priceless work of art is placed on the perfect pedestal.

Water grows murky each time the artist washes away an unsavory color to opt for another,

The designer does not give pause, shaping the piece until it fits the standards they have set,

Second by second, meticulously manipulating the craft to bend to their will,

So that it sits properly, without a flaw, on the perfect pedestal.

The artist tracks each deficiency and conforms them, raising the composition higher and higher,

Lifted up into the empty sky where even the stars see it and wonder at its beauty,

Where the moon grows jealous of its glow and the sun turns up its nose in disdain,

 Where it is loved and hated by all as it rests placidly on the perfect pedestal.

The art is cradled in the arms of its composer, gently and caringly,

Cherished, but only as long as it keeps its glow,

Revered, but only as long as its colors remain vibrant,

A brand on the heart of the composer, but only as long as it sits on the perfect pedestal.

Crimson, navy, violet, and olive, colors upon colors as they build until they make an image,

A world designed and molded by the precise founder,

A picture of perfection that astounds and sombers those who may lay eyes upon it,

And it stays in its place, a prominent piece perched on the perfect pedestal.