Strokes of graphite

On pristine white

Creating worlds from nothing

”This must be perfect”, he mutters

While mountains grew under his hands.

A shadow goes wrong,

Just a freckle, at the corner.

”Simple enough to fix”, he thinks

While grabbing his eraser.

Once, twice, thrice he tries

Each attempt leaving

A mark of the previous failure.

The paper protests

Fibers splitting underneath

The dedicated destruction.

Still, he goes on and on,

Eyes with the vision

Of what could be, should be, must be.

Hours pass in this cycle,

Of draw and erase, draw and erase

Until the paper goes thin and translucent

Resembling the wings of a moth,

Fragile as the morning dew,

Until it finally tears.

He tapes those tears with care,

Asking for apoligies,

Which does nothing to the

Ruined pristine white.

Thankfully, the perfection

Has been finally achieved

His eyes shine with pride

At those ideals and flawless lines

Living on a broken ground.

In his mind, he has created glory,

But he does not understand

Destruction comes in many facades,

Sometimes dressed as

The pursuit of beauty.