SDRPhotography

There once was a secluded artist, Every night he drew, His pictures, hidden under sleeves, So no one ever knew, Above everything else, this artist, Valued time to draw, With a gallery of pictures, That nobody ever saw, This museum of works, had forever gone unknown, His place of work, his bathroom, Where he drew at night, alone, He didn't use a pen or brush, When looking to express, His hidden work was everywhere, His arms, his legs, his chest, He only drew at night, When he was meant to be in bed, And though he drew in silver, His work only came in red, The artist had only one friend, And though the pair were close, She never asked why all t