A painter.

A painter, standing before a blank canvass, percieved golden horizon where dawn glimmered in patchy clouds. He, now composed, registered first swift stroke of crimson-tinged-purple and depicted an impression of the magnificent dawn.

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After calling it over-

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He-With dawn depicting canvass tucked under arm and a paint smeared finger, pressed between lips- wondered:

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"My painting is just an acknowledgement of beauty, 'Artist' is a word not fit for me. I merely create but extensively trace. Alas! If I could create a real art."

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And thus started the quest of a real art. Like a madman he stood before a blank canvass. Hungry eyes wandered restlessly for good many days. Eyes that knew beauty failed to create one.

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Starved Body, now on the verge of collapse. Throat, like a desert knew no oasis. Limbs frailed to excess, couldn't held him upright. Like a maggot he squirmed on floor. Lantern that lit, paid for all when one day it flamed the curtains.

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His house turned into a pyre and burnt to ashes.

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One after another, paintings succumbed except the blank canvass that like a soul remained industructible. It rained afterwards. Ashes, black and grey, created vaneer over his body and some fell on the white canvass too.

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Squirming towards the easel he took a grab of it and his bludgeoning hand tried warding off ashes from the canvas. The white surface ashened abstractly.

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Trails of the artist's blood, painted composition unseen.

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He took his final breathe as the virgin canvas deflowered at last.

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The masterpiece lived for the years to come.