Artist of the Night

The sun, a weary traveler, dips below the west,

Yielding its canvas to a master, ever-blessed.

Night, the artist, cloaks the world in inky hue,

A masterpiece unfolds, where only starlight hews.

His brushstrokes, shadows, dance on every wall,

Stretching long and slender, at buildings tall.

He dips his brush in moonlight, paints the sleeping stream,

A shimmering path, a whispered, silver dream.

The city, once a bustling hive, his canvas now it stands,

Streetlamps, his spotlights, casting pools of golden sands.

He paints the lonely figures, shrouded in the dark,

Each one a story waiting, a silent, flickering spark.

The wind, his restless assistant, whispers tales untold,

Through rustling leaves and chimney smoke, a story to unfold.

He paints with silence, broken only by owl's hoot,

A symphony of quiet, where secrets take root.

A million stars, his scattered diamonds, pierce the black,

A constellation tapestry, on velvet night's soft back.

He paints the Milky Way, a swirling, cosmic stream,

A masterpiece of wonder, a celestial dream.

The moon, his silver coin, hangs heavy in the sky,

Casting a gentle glow, where hidden creatures fly.

Moths, his flitting models, dance in its pale light,

A ballet in the shadows, a silent, graceful flight.

The artist dips his brush in firefly's gentle gleam,

Painting fleeting sparks, a whimsical, firefly dream.

He paints the dewdrop's tear, glistening on a blade,

A tiny diamond sparkling, in the moonlit serenade.

He paints the city's slumber, in a quiet, restful hue,

Buildings huddled close, dreams whispered, secrets true.

He paints the lovers' embrace, beneath a moonlit tree,

A story of devotion, for all the world to see.

The artist paints the sleepless, with worries etched in brow,

And paints a gentle solace, a promise somehow.

He paints a world transformed, where worries cease to hold,

Replaced by quiet whispers, stories yet untold.

From sunrise's vibrant palette, to twilight's fading light,

The artist of the night takes hold, and claims his birthright.

He paints a world of magic, in shades of silver, grey,

A masterpiece of wonder, at the close of every day.

And when the sun awakens, chasing shadows from the scene,

The artist steps aside, his work, a masterpiece, serene.

But wait, a whisper lingers, on the breeze so soft and light,

"The canvas waits, my friend," the artist whispers through the night.