In a forest grove where time stands still,
Lives Van Sloth, with an artistic skill.
Brush in hand, so patient and slow,
Paints like Van Gogh, with colors that flow.
His strokes are deliberate, his pace so serene,
Every masterpiece a languid dream.
The stars in the night, they twinkle and gleam,
On his canvas, they dance in a cosmic stream.
With each stroke of his brush, a story unfolds,
A world of wonder, in hues of gold.
Sunflowers droop, in the sun’s warm embrace,
As Van Sloth captures their languid grace.
His art may be slow, but it’s worth the wait,
For the beauty he creates is truly great.
Van Sloth, the painter of tranquil delight,
In his unhurried world, he finds his light.
The Poems I Never Wrote 