THE ART OF ART

With every stroke of my old paintbrush
A piece of the still world comes to life
Yet still remains frozen from all the rush.

Without a strong argument of strife
The canvas, like magic, holds the world
In glorious colours sharper than knife.

All simpleness of the plain is annulled
With every tint and shade alike
Like rainbows in dance, colours swirled.

Sometimes the colours, they go on strike
Mismatching hues to dull the harmony
A mistake shall never take a hike.

For with each stroke comes a flaw
Take this not as simple baloney
Every flaw is a chance to explore.