Blank Canvas

A blank canvas That is me The unmade bed The formaldehyde I can have it all A pure white frame That is me The dissected shark How I suffer for my art Only just begun The paint pallet Untouched, until I paint my eyes Below the brow A shade for an occasion I could follow any path Too young to fret where it leads Against a wall, I start to sleep Aged and flaking That will be me The oak tree evaporated Set in stone, a fountain The zest for life drying A frame stained by hands That will be me The aging process Stained in silent protest Nearing the end The paint flaked Touched, until I paint the wrinkles Now no one wants me A shade of white for an apparition I regret each path Too old to complain, a vault for a tomb The aging process from canvas, from womb