The world is a canvas

The world is a canvas, painted

With colors that shift and dance,

A masterpiece in motion,

By the hand of time, its trance.

Each stroke of nature’s brush

Adds depth and vibrant hue,

From sunrise’s golden rush,

To the skies’ changing blue.

With each passing day,

The canvas takes on new form,

As time’s brush sweeps away,

The shades of yesterday’s norm.

The seasons paint their portraits,

Autumn’s red and gold,

Winter’s crisp and silent frost,

Spring’s blooming colors bold.

And so the canvas continues,

Its beauty never still,

A canvas ever-changing,

With colors that thrill.

The world is a canvas, painted,

With a rhythm and rhyme,

A masterpiece in motion,

That evolves with time.

The same concept applies to ending words or word constraints of repeats.

The world is a masterpiece by the hand of time,

A palette of colors that shift and dance,

A work of art by the hand of time,

A canvas, alive with a rhythm and rhyme.

As the brushstrokes of time move in a trance,

Creating a masterpiece by the hand of time.

As the brush strokes’ hues both dark and bright,

With a fluid grace in a timeless trance.

The colors on the canvas swirl and dance,

In harmony with the rhythm and rhyme,

Painted by the hand of time.

As the years go by, the canvas of time,

Takes on new shades, both dark and bright,

A poetic symphony of rhythm and rhyme.

As the hand of time paints with a trance,

The world is a canvas, painted by time,

A masterpiece of colors both dark and bright,

In a rhythmic dance that moves in a trance.

A canvas of beauty, in rhythm and rhyme,

The world is a masterpiece by the hand of time.