Like white on rice

What was to contemplate?
What was there to read?
How is this art?
These are the ones that make me think.
Not of their greatness, but their loss.
These are the pieces we leave our decendents.
Not the greatness of Renoir,
or the inspiration of Da Vinci.
No, we leave them white canvas.
And we call it art.
There was much there that was art.
Thought in composition and form.
And then there was the empty feeling.
That someone had artists block.
He stared at his canvas for days.
And at the end, he just said done.
No need to open paints.
No need to use pen or ink.
But just a blank nothingness.
It made me feel as empty as your canvas.