He stares, with baby eyes at the star filled sky above him,
His paint, like his clothes, is old and worn.
A lonely shack is home with only an easel and brushes and a bed inside,
The eyes of the painter scan the horizon, the wealth of the world seemingly far off,
He paints to tell stories, to capture moments of life,
The world is his canvas, the paint brushes are his life.
He is the writer in paint, the storyteller in the picture.
To build universes and make people that others care for.
And to dream of himself flying amongst the stars.