The Painter’s Downfall
The painter lost his mind
His canvas is empty, standing on the side
His brush is dry and his paint grows cold
The scenery around him died and his mind turns mold
Many says that he grew old
That his mind is not that sharp like before
Many says that he is fake
Like a spring pretending to be a lake
But in his eyes, sorrows is met
The once beauty of his works that swells his pride
Turned into dust, his mind grew rust
His hands are trembling, his lines are crust
