“The canvas lay asleep
Pulled out to the morning glory abright
The chair creaks as I seat myself
Breaking silence, as I sit upright
I bend forward, my hands reaching to the canvas
I lean in, my fingers feeling the canvas
I run my bare index, from left to right
The fine scrapes and weaves causing no peeve
I dip fingertips in white
The thumb covered in white
I reach out to the canvas
Careful that the thumb is at lack
My eyes, they’re closed
With my hands running free;
My finger run the weave of the canvas
My thumb feeling frozen at ninety degrees
Each thread of my canvas, daubed
I can touch over three at a time
I can feel my hand smeared in paint
I can see the picture in my mind
I can feel the muse I have created
And I can feel I have done my time
I ease my eyes open to reality
I see my act, my creation, all grey
I ease my hands into perspective
I see my soul, my deviation, and me in disarray. ”
We wish the world sees our good. We wish the world sees us as saints. But we oft forget that we are, but, humans. We are imperfect. Though we aim for perfection, never wanting to let the black stain our white, yet that happens. That will happen. There is no more to our lives, than there is to the canvas.
It can be considered as stained. Or painted.
It can be considered as meaningless. Or a muse.
It can be considered as polluted. Or simply, grey.