Fine Art – POEM

picture frame

Blank canvas, no paint.
Except:
Once we enter,
That canvas is never clean; never white,
Every day changes its surface,
Fine strokes, aggressive daubs,
Emptied buckets in rage, in lust,
Colours mixing,
An uncertain finish.

Only in parting, can the frame be applied
Step back and see what they were really made of,
As the paint dries one last time,
No acrylic, watercolours, pencil or ink,
Is it dark? Light? Or mixed?
We decide in part, the rest is hurled at us,
On a canvas never square, nor symmetrical,
No one knows quite how many sides,
There are,
In the gallery that never opens.

lion around 2

23 Comments

  1. I really like the metaphor here. I love that we enter without “paint” – to me that is no agenda, just live life as it comes. Embrace it, fight with it, and keep it.
    wondeRful 😉

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