Brush Strokes

You used to praise me for my art form. Compliment the way I manipulated words into scenes of grandeur. I often painted you, not only on canvas, but into my future. Now that the future has changed, and my blue skies have turned a sullen shade of gray, I continue to paint you as the man you present yourself to be. You controlled the subject, scene, and lighting, though you still criticized that my depictions of you were in poor taste.